The Wizard's Crown
by David Arkos
Summary: For those Who Do Not Know: This story is only loosely based in the JK Rowling's world, and much of which occurs springs from my own imagination. It does not follow her characters. This is the conclusion of the tale of Dante Magus and Rosalind Arden.
1. Prologue One Rainy Day

THE WIZARD'S CROWN

By

So Begins The End of Dante Infervios Magus

Reader, Take No False Hope

When All Is Ended

Dante, Who Is Edmondicus Ferverus Cristo

Shall Be No More

PROLOGUE

It was raining, that day, that the end began. The rain was falling from Heaven and pummeling the pavement and rooftops like a flood of angelic tears, lamenting the fall of a third of their brothers and sisters. The rain came hurtling from on high and scorched the earth continuously, tirelessly wearing and eroding away the many meaningless constructs the men called the "city".

The rain was thick enough that no man could see more than four feet before him in the storm, and the clouds were strong and black enough that, though it was midday, the sky was dark as night and the sun blotted out entirely. There was absolutely no chance of escaping the storm unscathed, all would be purified by the fury of the rain. All would be drowned by the wrath of a trillion falling sheets of precipitating sorrow.

On a day such as this, it was hard for many Londoners to feel cheery, used as they were to the rains. There was simply something about the fact that one needed gills and fins to cross the street that they found cause for melancholy. There was, however, one among the many in the city who found a speck of good in all the abounding despair.

Rain such as this was perfect cover.

Running speedily from rooftop to rooftop was a man of twenty-six years of age dressed in a heavy, long coat. He was approximately six feet in height, broad in shoulder, but altogether wraith-like in weight. He was slender, almost like a tree in man-form. His head was covered in shoulder's length red-brown hair, which was dissheveled and drenched by the rain. In his hand he appeared to be clutching a stick of wood around ten inches long.

This young man, as it so happened, was an unusual sort, even for the unusual Londoners out in the storm. He was a wizard, and an unusual one, even then. For he was a criminal wizard, a practicioner of dark magic, and a proficient and highly wanted one at that.

And he was being hunted.

For every criminal element in the world, there is also a force of order, a unit of peace-keepers hell-bent on preserving a constitution or law or word of a magistrate of some manner. Knights, officers, soldiers; defenders of truth, justice, and the good ol' Western way. These are the Aurors: the wizard world's answer to the super-hero. They are an elite corps of exceptional wizards trained to capture or kill dark mages.

They are also an exceptional pain in the neck.

Three Aurors had been pursuing the dark wizard since the early hours of the morning, when the storm had been seemingly conjured out from no where. They had chased him through alleys and over buildings, in tunnels and even a bar. These Aurors were young, and surprisingly relentless given that. The young criminal had eluded wizards far more experienced than them. The chase had lead a long and winding track, and any attempt to head off the criminal had ended in disaster.

At last the wizard-crook leapt to the top of a five story building, from the roof of a four, and found himself cornered; there were no more roofs, and the street was too far below. He turned about and saw four figures rise up through the rain to the roof top. It had been pouring too hard for broomsticks, but aided jumping had availed him so far.

A flash of lightning preceeded by a blast of thunder signaled the arrival of the Aurors on the roof. Another flash illuminated their faces; two men, two women. For a moment none of them moved, then, at once, all five magi drew their wands.

"Edmond Cristo, alias Dante Magus, you are under arrest. In the name of the Ministry and the Wizengamot, you will surrender your wand." Said the lead Auror, a young man, broad and muscular, with a bright shock of blonde hair.

"Give it up Walker," answered Magus, "I know you have to charge me first. What are my crimes, eh? Not that you need to read them, I'm not coming in; quietly or otherwise."

"You are under arrest for seventeen counts of attempted murder, nineteen burglaries, the murder of Jazmyn Hollingberry-,"

"Murder!? She'd have lived if you ninnies had gotten her to Mungo's and left me alone!"

"Impersonating a centaur chieftain, and the practice and possession of illegal magics defined as dark and malign," finished the blonde Auror. His eyes rested on the criminal in a burning gaze. This wizard had killed an Auror, and, whatever his other crimes might be, that was inexcusable.

"I hear he eats muggle infants," whispered one of the female Aurors to the left of Walker.

"Can it Pederson," answered the other, "He doesn't eat them, he experiments on them, trying to invent new spells."

A cold laugh issued from the dark wizard, interrupting the two witches. "I've also heard I like to mate with Nagas and Merfolk, too, because their skins are as cold as my heart, but that doesn't make it true! You people will believe anything these days!"

"Then why don't you come with us and enlighten us, eh Magot?" answered the other male Auror.

"That's enough, all of you!" barked Walker. "Your coming in Cristo, dead or alive, those are my orders."

"You know," answered the criminal, fingering his wand slightly, "Not everything you've heard is false, either. I hear I have a bad habit of inflicting nigh fatal wounds, ones that, untreated, have a history of killing the Auror quickly. You know what else I hear?" He cocked his head slightly, "That I have a spell that kills souls. It leaves the Auror alive, but destroys his soul, so that when he dies, there's nothing left. When he does die, that's it. I hear it's a horrible way to go." He let out another laugh and took a step backwards.

"Is that what you want for them, Drew? You've got three subordinates here that you're responsible for, and they're all young. Do you want me to ruin their lives at such an age? Maybe cripple them for life? You know there are no ways to heal wounds inflicted by Dark Magic, at least, not when it involves removal of appendages. Is that what you want to start you career as? The wizard who let his team die because he wouldn't back down? Or the wizard who failed to capture one of the most wanted dark wizards in the last nine years? You lost picking this case, Walker. You lost big time."

"Enough of this; Pederson, Rotherham, take him."

A moment passed where nothing moved, save the rain, and then the two women advanced with cat-like speed. They lunged forward, wands raised, and the first shouted, "_Confringo!!_" There was a red flash and then a blur of bending light, a moment later a part of the rooftop exploded.

Rotherham raised her wand and pointed it at the dark wizard as well, not verbalizing, but casting a constraint spell none the less. Ropes emerged into the rain and found themselves knocked to the ground as well, the force propelling them being less powerful than the onslaught of the tempest.

Rotherham and Pederson let out cries of surprise as they realized the counterattack had begun and already ended. Pederson experienced a loss of breath and a sudden warmth on her robes. Looking down, she saw that four six-inch shards of glass were protruding from her stomach. As for Rotherham, she saw that her boots had only been fused to the rooftop.

The Aurors were at a loss. How had Magus counterattacked, or rather, when? They had seen him deflect the explosion spell, but after that, there could not have been any reasonable way for a wizard to cast two spells that quickly, was there?

"The first," sneered Dante, "is a transfiguration, I have turned the rain into glass, and then sent it into Claire's stomach. She has a half an hour at most, to live. Her blood shall mingle only briefly with the storm, and then vanish. But if she is taken to Mungo's and treated in time, she will live.

"The second," he continued, "Is a nicer spell than I think I have ever devised before. It's an anti-apparrition spell. If Iris apparates, she explodes, or implodes. Not really sure yet, no one's ever tried to apparate. Any way, the point is, Iris isn't taking Claire back, which leaves you, Drew, to do it, or your hooded friend there, who I can't quite identify. Either way, you still have time. Please, Walker, don't kill your friends."

"You, you-," stammered Drew, justifiably at a loss for words.

"You're running out of time, Walker."

"Take her back, and get someone up here to get Rotherham," said Drew to the other Auror. The hooded man nodded and picked up Claire, apparating shortly afterwards.

"Fool!" shouted Dante, "Who will save you, when you lie in the street bleeding!?"

"I'm touched, Magot," said Drew, "but you better start running."

"If you aren't tired of this race-," muttered Dante. He took a few steps backward, and then fell, face upward, off the roof.

"Damn!" shouted Walker, running to the rooftop in time to see the dark wizard turn over in the air and cause the rain to form a slide for his escape. He apparated to the street below and took up the chase again, leaving Iris on the rooftop, shouting for him to come back.

The chase went on for another hour, with Magus apparating from time to time, occaisionally behind Walker, tripping him up or slipping down alleys they had already passed. Dante ran down a long alley towards his escape when a woman walked out into the alley. An exploding spell that hit just above his head told Dante that Drew was not far behind him. The woman gave a surprised look at the spell and stifled a shout as Dante turned in the street and froze the rain so that it barred Drew's passage.

Knowing that there were only moments till his enemy apparated across the barrier, Dante turned again to flee, only to find the woman blocking his way. "Oh, _phyne_," he muttered, quickly grabbing the woman and apparating into the night.

Several seconds afterward, Drew appeared on the other side of the ice. He looked around frantically, but could see no sign of Magus. The chase had ended, and the dark wizard had escaped again.


	2. Ch 1 Nine Years Ago

Chapter 1: Nine Years Ago

Nine years prior to the events on that rooftop, Dante Magus, for so he prefered to be called, feeling the name suited him better than Edmond Cristo, was only just beginning his career in villainy, so to speak. He had years of experience bullying at school, and years of experience in the Dark Arts by that time, but he was still very novice compared to the wraith-hero who appeared in the rainstorm.

Dante Infervious Magus, or rather, Edmondicus Ferverus Cristo III stood in a large white chamber, with tall white chairs that were affixed to the walls and bore various shields upon them. The chairs were occupied by magi robed in dark cloaks, their faces concealed, save for the wizard in the tallest chair, whose face was almost a mirror of his, though older and bearded. Below, on the ground, stood a white u-shaped table laden with books, scrolls, quills and piles of parchement. Bent over this table was a man in robes akin the color of the room, save the black trim around their ends, like ink stains of a thousand years. Next to him stood a tall man with a cruel face and no lips. In a corner on a stool sat a wizened old man, shriveled with age, furiously writing on a scroll. Before the table stood Dante.

The man in the tallest chair was his father, Allistair Hyperius Cristo IV, the High Patriarch of House Cristo, the master of the family, its dependent families, fortunes and businesses. The hooded magi were the other heads of house, and the ink-stained man was the official Witness of the proceedings, and had been studying approximately two centuries of daily records and accounts for the last week. The tall man was the family Arbiter, the head of this particular proceeding, and the man on the stool the family Historian, who made the daily records and accounts.

"This matter," said the Arbiter, whose name was Milone Cristo, "is a rather unusual one. Usually, the family head, even the dependent families, remained cloaked, save for the High Patriarch. However, as the Accused include the entirety of the family heads, even the High Patriarch, I demand that you each remove your hoods. It is the right of the Accusor to see the face of the Accused, every bit as much as it is the right of the Accused to see the face of the Accusor."

"This is a farce!" spat a wizard whose chair was near in height to the High Patriarch's. "One cannot Accuse the High Patriarch! It is a sin beyond forgiveness!"

"Jason Friddum, the Witness, appointed by the family, will attest that there is no law in the family records, whether in the Hall of Simoniacs or in the personal libraries of the family that states the High Patriarch cannot be Accused." Answered Milone.

"But the High Patriarch must be above the law, above reproach!"

"No one is above the law, and as the Arbiter of this family, I demand you show your faces!"

Grumbling, the hoods were pulled back, revealing a court of wizards who were aged and/or very angry. One was heard to mutter loudly, "No one would have dared Accuse Edmond the Good; this is a travesty."

"Yes, but that is neither here nor there Fredrick Sintel. Now, I believe the High Patriarch is supposed to open these proceedings with a few remarks."

"Ohh, not throwing away all curtousy at once, are we?"

"No I am not, Fredrick, but you seem to be! Now, Accused or not, this court awaits the words of the High Patriarch; his opinion on the matter and his expectations."

Alistair Cristo gazed down on his son, looking at nothing else. He met the young man's defiant stare for a long moment, and the drew in a long breath. Releasing it slowly, he said, "It seems we are come to the end of the days of the Esteemed House Cristo." A murmur began in the other heads of house, but with a gesture of his hand, they became silent, "I do not say that lightly, but to think, that a day should come, not when the High Patriarch should be Accused, but that the Accusor should be his son. Surely this signifies the end of the days of the Winged Cross. I expect that the charges shall be laid aside, and the heads of house shall be found free of blame, and that these things shall be exposed as falsities. As for my opinion, it is my opinion, as High Patriarch, that this represents a serious failing in this House to raise its children properly- all misfortunate flames aside, and that the laws of this House regarding the rearing of children shall be rewritten and made more strict following these proceedings."

"Fair enough. Now, the Arbiter will hear an account of the Accusation from the Accusor first, and then, when his tale is finished, the Accused shall elect one among them who shall offer their version of the Accusation." Milone looked over at Dante and said, "Well, come along lad. You haven't gone this far to get shy now."

Dante advanced a step, looking up into the faces of his alleged family. Some people would find this difficult, he reflected, some people would have trouble attempting to dethrone and disinherit their entire family, especially if they had never met many of these Uncles and Cousins. But not him. He owed them nothing, nothing at all. Where had they been those years he had been lost after the fire stole him from them? Where had he been when the bigger kids had held him down and carved that wing-shape into his arm? Why had none of this fat, simpering, slobbering old white flesh-bags never once tried to find him when he'd lived as an urchin and ate from the garbage!? The only family outside of his sister that had ever loved him was dead. These goats were not his flesh and blood, and it served them right to cower before him.

Holding his head up high, he said, "I am, what some here may call, an outsider to these traditions. I have lived much of my life not knowing I came from the House Cristo, or any of its noble lineage. When at last I did come to know myself concerning this, I found I was faced with many more questions than when I began. Chief among these," he paused a moment, reminding himself of the script and willing himself to go onward, "was why my elder half-brother, Vergilius Frigita Tiresias Cristo IX, an honest man who had served as Steward of the Fortune of our House in my father's time of amnesia and disease, was forever cut off from his inheritance. What had he done that was so unspeakable that he could never touch a cent of what was, by birth, his right as the elder son? And then I learned of the Hall of Simoniacs, the Record House of the entire family, far beneath the Spanish Estate. On a winter's vacation, not unlike this one, I believe it was during my fifth year of education, I at last had the chance to go there. Oh yes, at a very young age, I entered the Hall of Simoniacs, unbeknownst to you all. I didn't trust any of you then, and I don't now."

"The Accusor will please adhere to only the facts of his story," interrupted Milone.

"Quite," muttered Dante, altogether not moved by the Arbiter's admonition. "As I was saying, I came to the Hall of Simoniacs, and discovered no file pertaining to my brother's misdeeds. In fact, there were only two files related to him at all. The first I found mentioned that he was the youngest Steward in a century, and that he had been made so by this court to guard the family fortune in the absence of my father and a legitimate heir. Now that got me interested: a legitimate heir. So I looked at the second file, which declared him illegitimate because he had been born impotent, and would never produce a biological heir, ever.

"So I had to know, what were the parameters that made someone legitimate? Whatever they were, they struck me as harsh and terrible. So I spent another hour finding that section in the Hall, and a few hours after that I found something rather disturbing out: That the section of family law which declared a son born impotent to be illegitimate had been written by none other than the current High Patriarch, my father."

"That is not so amazing," spat one wizard whose seat was almost the same height as Allistair's, "The High Patriarch may write laws as he deems necessary." Despite this statement, there was a murmur arising from some of the wizards with chairs lower to the floor.

"Perhaps not, but it struck me as suspicious. And so I looked up my father's file, which, to my surprise, had already been left unlocked. And oh, the things I read there. It seems to me my father had a rather tumultous childhood himself, often rebelling against his own father, the High Patriarch of that time. My father and his brother Morva, were involved in the death of their cousin Alejandros, the heir-apparent to the Spanish Estate. They apparently visited their cousin on a winter vacation, again, not unlike this one, but it was against their father's wishes. When they returned, a week late from the vacation, cousin Alejandros was dead, and his father, being old, could produce no further heirs.

"And so it was that Edmond the Good appointed his son Morva, who swore to his father he had done all he could to save Alejandros, the new Head of the Spanish Estate. Are you all following this? How convenient that Alejandros should die and Morva inherit his estate, and that Morva and Allistair should be alone with him in his final moments."

"Your story is incoherent," scoffed Morva, the wizard who occupied the high seat near Allistair, "You were talking about your father, not me, and his misdeeds, not mine."

"So I was, so I was and so I shall get back to that in my own time. The thought occurred to me, what if they had killed him, the both of them? What if a deal had been struck by my father and uncle? One as High Patriarch, another Lord of the Hall of Simoniacs. Which is when I read that murder of a family member is grounds for disinheritance."

"You can prove no murder!" shouted Morva.

"But I can, in fact, prove the murder."

A hush fell over the court at the words of the boy. How insolent this little Edmond was! To claim he could prove a murder of that sort! Some of them had looked into that death themselves, and had never once seen any shread of evidence to suggest that Alejandros had been murder, least of all by his own cousins!

"Alejandros was allegedly slain by a Yeti in the mountains, a rogue one, that had migrated from Tibet to Spain. True enough, that year there was a string of Yeti attacks reported in the area, indeed, this is why Edmond the Good warned against the trip, and a year or so later the Yeti was captured.

"But it would seem, that in their haste to acquire the Estate and the Hall, my father and uncle did not study the other deaths, or even Yetis for that matter. A Yeti, as you know, kills, not through strangulation, but through a scream which paralyzes the foe. They then leave them pass into unconciousness before attacking. Then they crush the throat, just in case. Yetis are fearful and cautious. Now, can anyone here tell me what killed Alejandros Cristo?"

"Loss of blood from multiple flesh wounds," answered Michael Friddum, who had been close to Alejandros.

"Yes, loss of blood from multiple flesh wounds. There is no record of ruptured ear drums, nor of a crushed throat. Alejandros Cristo was _not_ killed by a Yeti."

Another murmur ran through the lower chairs, but the higher ones remained united in stony silence.

"You have proved that," said Morva, "but nothing else."

"This court seems to be in such a hurry that it will not be patient enough to hear Accusation laid against every Head of House."

"That would take days!" cried one of the assembly.

"So it shall, so it shall," answered Edmond, "But today I will focus my efforts on discrediting only the chief of the Accused: Allistair and Morva Cristo."

"Then I suggest you get on with this nonsense!"

"Very well, I present to the court the following instrument: the knife which was used to kill Alejandros Cristo." Producing the knife from the table's mound of evidence, he held it aloft so it could be seen by all. It was a long knife, the blade being the length of a man's forearm, and it was shaped to appear like it had the teeth of an animal along one side. There were various runes carved into the handle. "This knife is a special one, a wizard's hunting knife, a Memoknife, if you will. It is designed to show an image of the creatures it has slain, so that a hunter can show off the creatures he has slain with it. They have long been out of popularity among wizards, not having been seen in use since the fall of the Holy Roman Empire. This particular knife has, inscribed into its handle, the name of its owner: Morva Anubisca Cristo XII, in merfolk runes. Now I wonder what will happen if I ask it to show its last kill?"

A dark glance passed between Morva and Allistair, but it was undetected by the court. Their eyes were fixed upon the knife.

"_Priori Mortum_," whispered Edmond, and the knife's blade began to turn red as though it were having blood poured upon it. Edmond turned the knife blade down, and the blood dripped onto the floor. When it touched the floor, it erupted into a geyser of steam and smoke, and in the smoke an image could be seen. Slowly it became more and more clear. It was a man! At last his face became visible, and it was, indeed, Alejandros Cristo.

The whispers now rose higher in the room, reaching nearer to the High Patriarch's throne. They were silenced again, however, by Morva Cristo's voice.

"You have proved, perhaps, that Alejandro was killed, and with this Memoknife you claim is mine, but you have not proved who used the thing to do that deed!"

"Now see, here, my uncle, you were terribly hasty. Did you ever think to wipe the handle off? Of course not. In all the magical world, why would anyone ever pause to check for so mundane a thing as prints? And yet there they are, and there they have been all this time."

"Prints?" exclaimed one of the court, "A muggle's evidence cannot be accepted here!"

"Which is exactly what Morva was banking on, undoubtedly," answered Edmond, "but these prints were confirmed by a wizard, not a muggle. They are, without a doubt, the same prints that are on record for Morva Cristo, who once was arrested for his involvement in a burglary in his youth."

"This ridiculous!" cried Morva, "I am guiltless! Innocent! I have killed no member of this family!"

"But the evidence declares otherwise," said Edmond.

"Fie upon your evidence! Fingerprints!? They could not have lasted all those years!"

"Then perhaps you take the Memoknife out the caress in the night, thanking it for all it has given you?"

"I did not kill Alejandros! I didn't even take that knife with me that night!"

"Then you admit it is your Memoknife?"

"What!? No, I-,"

"And if you didn't have it with you that night, what did you mean when you said, and I quote the official documents, 'I stabbed the thing with my knife, having forgotten my wand in the cabin,'?"

"You, you, you!"

"This is all very interesting," interrupted Allistair, "but you have only proven Morva's guilt, if that, in the death of Alejandros Cristo, not mine, and as the Chief of the Accused, as well as the High Patriarch, I would like you to get to the point on that."

"Ah, well, the truth is, in the case of Alejandros Cristo, you did not physically commit any crime."

"If that is all, then I am entirely inclined to reprimand you for this waste of time!"

"Waste of time?" said Michael Friddum, "We've just learned Alejandros Cristo was murdered by Morva and you call this a waste of time!?"

"Compared to an Accusation against the High Patriarch, yes."

"What!?" screamed Morva, "It was your plan! You said we'd be rich beyond our imaginings if we killed Alejandros! You said I'd be powerful! If you think I'm going down alone, Allistair, you're sadly mistaken!"

"Oh please, Morva. I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about."

"Excuse me!" shouted the Arbiter, "but I believe the Accusor has not yet finished his case for the day."

"Thank you, Uncle Milone," said Edmond. "Now, where was I? Oh yes, I believe I was about to lay charges against the High Patriarch for crimes greater than the murder of his flesh and blood."

"Don't be ridiculous," said one among them, "There is no higher crime in the law than murder of a member of the family."

"I tire of being admonished by a court of sinful wizards," said Edmond, his voice dull, but his words filled with contempt. "I shall be as ridiculous as I please, before I am through."

"Can all this not be forgiven? Consider the time of year, my brothers! We are all good Christian Wizards, after the way of Merlin himself, surely it is within the powers and rights of the High Patriarch to pardon all charges in light of the times?"

"Ah, but I must ask," interjected Edmond, "Who is the High Patriarch?"

"Oh, this is preposterous! The High Patriarch is Allistair Cristo, son of the last High Patriarch, Edmondicus Cristo!"

"Is he now? What if I were to tell you that, never, even for a moment, has Allistair Cristo been the High Patriarch, and that he has wielded the power wrongfully? Would that not be a crime beyond even murder?"

"I repeat my statement from before, this is a farce!"

"And I remind you: You are here only because you are a member of the Accused. Each in his own turn shall be brought to justice. Now, I believe evidence is in order?"

The Accused sat in silence.

"Very well. I present to the court this," he held up a scroll of parchment, "The will and testament of Edmond Cristo, as he wrote it, and not, in fact, as you have seen it. This will is the true will, and the one hitherto seen is a forgery, produced by Allistair Cristo to assure himself the position of High Patriarch."

The Arbiter took the paper from Edmond before it could be covered in spit by the wizards above it. He read to the court, "I Edmondicus Ferverus Cristo II, being the eldest son of my father, and current High Patriarch of the House of Cristo, and in stable mind, free of curse of potion, having once kissed a troll because of a lost bet in Bolivia, do hereby make a will and testement for the purpose of my family following my death." He looked up and said, "It is in Edmond the Good's handwriting, and the troll kissing was in fact his signifier to show he was not under spell. It goes on to list where various possessions of his must go after he dies, where he wants to be buried, etcetera. It looks identical to the will on file, except that the handwriting is somewhat different."

"How can it be his handwriting and different?"

"I only said it was different from the will on file. This is more his than the one I've seen. The tails of letters are exaggerated properly. Where is the difference in this will, boy?"

"Last paragraph, third sentence."

"Ah, yes, I see it: Which brings me to the matter of my replacement. At the time of my passing, the title of High Patriarch shall pass to the next legitimate heir: who is Edmondicus Cristo, my son Allistair having surrendered his legitimacy in adultery, and his son Vergilius surrendering it against his will, having been born incapable of producing an heir."

A hush fell upon the court as they heard this. The adultery had been heard of before, but had never been proven. Yet there it was, in the hand of Edmond the Good, and as High Patriarch at that time, to mention a crime which had been hushed up, it was a slap from beyond the grave. Only as High Patriarch could such an allegation without proof matter: as High Patriarch, his word had been regarded as law.

"The letter is signed by Edmondicus Cristo, which is after the manner of Edmond the Good," said Edmond, "He never signed anything Edmond the Good, or Good Ed. He hated the name, thought it made him sound too much like a king, which, as a good Christian Wizard after the way of Merlin, he would have never dared to see himself as."

"I do not accept this new will," said Allistair, "I wish it to be proved, if it can. The Arbiter and Witness will both testify that this is the true will."

The two men, Milone and the old man who had gone thus far unnoticed, bent over the wills and whispered softly between them for a moment. After what seemed an eternity, they stood erect. There faces had gone pale as sheets, and in unison they announced the doom of a hundred generations of traditions.

"This will," they said, "is written in the hand of Edmond Cristo. It matches the manifestos on file." There was a pause and then Milone said, "It is perfect, all the way down to the signature. The old will is false, a forgery."

Smiling, Edmond said, "I wish to conclude this opening Accusation by asking one simple question: Who, in all this House, would benefit most from forging the will of Edmond the Good? Think long and hard if you must, or, if you lack the time or capacity, just ask yourself: Who is sitting in the tallest chair? The answer to both questions is the same."

Silence filled the chamber. The faces of the wizards gathered there were pale and anxious. Morva Cristo was sweating openly. For one long moment it seemed as though everything would change.

And then Allistair Cristo clapped. "Excellent, excellent show, my boy. You have been fast enough and persuasive enough that you have won over many in this room, even though they must know you will put their heads on the chopping block sooner or later. You have even managed to make them forget the Accused has a chance to defend themselves, and, while Morva may have forgotten this, I have not." Here Morva's eyes and mouth opened wide as he suddenly realized his mistake.

"Now, let's see here, what was the accusation against me? That I had forged my father's will to gain his position, that this new one is the true one? Now, I must ask: How could my father have known I would have a son named Edmondicus, if, at the time he died, I had but the one child, and had not even met my son's mother here? Also: What adultery? I have never once in my life been unfaithful to my wives. And Maybe the will we have so far seen is forged, and, by some strange chance my father was a Seer and prophesied of his grandson's birth, who is to say I forged it, and not someone else? It cannot have been signed by me, as my handwriting has never been called similar to my father's. So there you have it, I am innocent."

"Oh, did I forget those?" answered Edmond. "How very silly of me. It is not a well known fact, but according to a maid in your house, and in fact, several members of your older staff, your first wife, a miss Ariel Cristo, was pregnant at the time of her death. Her son was to be named Edmondicus, after his grandfather, who had always been kind to Ariel."

"That's news to me."

"Yes well, I imagine it is so, and, while I have no evidence to support it, there is also none to refute it. But I imagine it is a surprise because, word has it you and the late Mrs. Cristo were not especially close following the conception."

"Is that so? I shall have to see to it that more silent staff is hired after this."

"Providing you are around to hire any staff, Allistair."

"You will address me as High Patriarch, if you are so ill behaved that you cannot call me father."

"I shall stick to Allistair, if you please. You see, I also forgot to mention that the reason no one has actually ever compared your handwriting to your father's is because all forms upon which the two appear have been hitherto concealed in your own bedroom. Three paintings had to be threatened severely before they would reveal the safe in which these files were kept. On these early documents, your handwriting greatly resemble's Edmondicus Cristo's."

"This is a waste of my time." Shrugging, Allistair turned to face Milone, "As the Arbiter, you are the sole decider in this case, as the court is all Accused. What is your verdict?"

For a moment he was quiet, and seemed distraught, but then an odd look crossed Milone Cristo's eyes. He appeared pained, and upset, but also relieved as he said, "I'm sorry Allistair, and I truly am sorry Morva, my brother, but as the Arbiter of this court, I must declare that both of you are found guilty, and that your sentence now lies with the High Patriarch."

Allistair laughed and said, "There! You see, as High Patriarch, I-,"

"No, Allistair," interrupted Milone, "Not you. Your son."

Allistair Cristo's smile faded and his eyes widened. "What? Milone, what did you say?"

"He said you aren't the High Patriarch, Allistair." Edmond smirked and rocked back and forth on his feet as he said this, because he knew where it was leading. "You see, _I_ am the High Patriarch, and I have been since July, when I came of age. You were never the High Patriarch, you've just been warming my chair."

"What!" shouted Allistair as he drew his wand, "What is this madness! I am Lord of this House, and no other!"

"The judgement has passed, Allistair, put away your wand, you are only drawing further shame upon yourself!"

"Let him draw all the shame he wants, it won't change his fate."

"Then you mean to forgive me?"

"Oh, did I say that? No, no, no. Let me make myself perfectly clear. Let me clarify myself to this entire House. All of you will be tried, but I will find mercy in my heart for most of you, but this is still the end of The Winged Cross as you knew it. As for you, Allistair, and you, Morva, get out of my House and off of my property."

"I will not abandon what is mine so easily!" shouted Allistair.

"Perhaps I did not make myself clear? I am Edmondicus Ferverus Cristo III, the Lord of the House of Cristo, a highly respected title among wizards, and if you do not evacuate the premises immediately, I shall have you removed by force."

"Will no one defend me? I am the Lord of this House! Are you all so spineless and female that you will sit by and let a son throw out his father?"

"You try my patience, sir! This is your final warning: go or I shall evict you myself!"

"Edmond," said Allistair, his voice turning suddenly soft, "after all I've done for you? My son-,"

"_Silencio!_" roared the young man, his wand appearing almost from nowhere. "_Petrificus Totalus!_" He swept his wand in a wide slash, paralyzing his father and uncle in their chairs. "As my first act as High Patriarch, I pronounce a doom upon these two: It is not punishment enough that they be disinherited and discredited; from this point onward, they are Allistair and Morva only, and Cristoes no further. The name of Our Lord and the Mark of the Winged Cross passes from them. Anyone who offers sanctuary to these blood-traitors shall suffer the same fate. A murderer and deceiver, unworthy of being called good Christian wizards after the way of Merlin!" With another wave of his wand, the two most esteemed and respected members of the Cristo family were pulled from their high seats and levitated out of the room and down, out of the house into the snow.

So it happened that at the age of seventeen Dante Magus, officially Edmondicus Cristo, became the High Patriarch of his family. He went on to convict every member of the old court and replace most of them as he saw fit, appointing, not new Heads of House, but High Stewards, who would see to it that his money was well guarded, but still put to the use of the families he was now responsible for. And so began the rule of Edmondicus, being partly created by falsified evidence and partly long overdue.

But for better or for worse, it was still the beginning of his career as the Master of Shadows, a notorious Dark Wizard.


	3. Ch 2 The Battle of Hogwarts

There was a loud crash and an accompanying fall of debris. A section of the fourth floor had fallen through and seperated Dante from the others. He banged furiously against it for a moment before giving way to heavy sobs. He couldn't know if they were on the other side of it, or if they were in it, and he knew no spells which could safely remove the rocks without putting the immediate area at risk. He was alone again, and the others had been trapped on the opposite side, if they had not been crushed by the ruins of the castle.

Six months had passed since Dante had assumed command of his family's fortunes and leadership of the House. He had been through a harrowing time at Hogwarts, watching the collapse of what even he deemed a good institution, and striving in secret to protect his peers from the harms their own stupidity would cause. He had done everything that he could to resist on his own, but one young man, talented as he might be, couldn't stand up to the system, could he?

Well, that was an answer he'd find out tonight, wasn't it? If Harry Potter couldn't fix this mess, then that was that, wasn't it?

The last week had been especially terrible. He'd been found out, been given the opportunity to join or be killed, and he had fled. He'd found his way to the hideout in the Room of Requirement, and there he had hid. What good would it have been to go home? He owed it to his family to keep them safe, it was his responsibility, and, despite all his hard thoughts, he couldn't put children he'd never met in danger, and he definitely couldn't flee to France to his sister. And, all things aside, he couldn't bring himself to leave the castle. He couldn't just abandon it to the Carrows, or to Snape, not after everything he'd seen them do.

Presently, he rose from the boulders and rushed down the corridor he found himself in. Now wasn't the time for tears, not yet. He could weep when the battle was won. Now was the time to fight, to prove he hadn't studied the Dark Arts for all those years just so he could shun a fight.

Hardly had he run down the corridor when a soft laugh filled it. It was high pitched, but masculine, and disturbingly familiar to Dante. It was a figure from his dreams, or nightmares rather, and it reminded him of a relative he had rather little patience for. He saw a figure walking on the ceiling ahead of him, laughing as it came, hunched like a beast. As it came close enough to view, the figure rushed toward him and, only just in time did Dante see the wand.

He narrowly avoided a curse that melted a wall behind him. He turned to see the damage, then turned back to face his new foe. The hunched man-beast rose to its full upside-down height and revealed its face.

The face, strikingly similar to Dante's, though longer and with a much larger nose, belonged to his cousin, Clarion.

"Well, well, well, if it isn't likkle Eddie!! How are we today Eddie-boy? Don't you just love the new castle décor? The Dark Lord freed me from Azkaban because he knew I was such a glorious interior decorator, don't you think? Look at the majesty of it! Such wondrous detritous, such beautiful trappings of chaos! Isn't this the best screen to die on?"

"Clarion, is that you? How do you manage to keep your dress from falling all over your face standing upside-down like that? I hardly recognized you without all the lipstick. It's a good thing though, I'd hate to mess it all up when I remove your face."

"Oh, Eddie! Is that any way to talk to your favorite cousin?"

"Cousin? You aren't my cousin. You were thrown out of the family years ago."

"What sass! This from the ikkle boy who was thrown away years ago, him and his wikkle sissy-poo to die in the cold snow or burn in the alleged flames."

"Watch your tongue, Clarion, or I'll have to cut out."

"Tsk, tsk! Eddie, my dear, sweet, handsome, edible cousin, what a terrible way to talk! Who taught him to speak that way, Iggy?"

"Iggy?"

Just then, a figure appeared, walking in on the left wall. A cold chill stabbed Dante's heart. He saw the man, but couldn't believe it was real. "Ignatius?" There on the wall stood the man who had taken him in after the deaths of the DeMagus family, the man who had been his brother, the one he'd fled to every time things had gone bad with foster families. Ignatius Horatio, the thief who'd called him Nate as a boy.

"'Iya Nate. Lovely weather, innit? Now, wot's this I 'ear about you misspeakin' lad?"

"Isn't the Imperius curse a beautiful thing, Eddie? Makes the caster soo much more powerful, if he can only think about who he's cursing it with."

"Honestly Clarion, I knew you had trouble finding friends, but the Imperius curse?"

"My, my, my! So very rude of you, Eddie, all these accusations! But then, I suppose that since you never have any real weapons or proof, words are all you really know, aren't they?"

"Shut up, Clarion! You want to die that badly?"

"Die? Me? There you go wasting words on one who does not care, my silly wikkle cousin. How can I die when the odds are three against one?"

"Three against one? Clarion, I knew you were wrong in the head, but stupid, too? There's two of you, and I only have to beat one to free the other."

"Oh! How silly of me? Did I forget to introduce the third member of my little squadron? Come on out Lemmy!"

"Lemmy? You have _got_ to be kidding me!"

But sure enough, on the other wall, out of the dark came a third figure. A great brute of a man, who looked like he barely knew his way around the hall, let alone how to walk on walls. As his face came into view, Dante recognized him as the man he'd attacked in Wales the previous winter.

"And now we're all here, four Dark Wizards, about to do battle in the halls of the most prestigous Wizarding School in the world, and yet one of us fails to serve his rightful lord and master. Before we slaughter you, Eddie, and make you see the power of the Dark Lord, would you mind answering one little question of mine?"

"Oh certainly, Clarion, because I really feel the need to do that for you."

"Excellent. Now tell me, when you purged the family this winter, why did you leave that despicable freak brother of mine in it?"

"Caliban is a good man born to hideous parents, Clarion. Someday he will become better than either of us could ever hope to be."

"Mmm, poetic, aren't we? Too bad Cal the dog-face will never hear you speak those words."

"Ah, well, better to have the face of a dog than be a female one, eh?"

"You're dead, Eddie-boy, dead!"

And with that, the battle began. The three Death-Eaters pointed their wands at the young man and in unison cast spells, but when the dust cleared, they found he was not there! Lemmy let out a yelp as he was knocked against the side of the wall (what was the floor to him) by a sharp punch-force spell. As he crashed into the wall, Iggy and Clarion pivoted and fired again, only to find that the boy had evaded them again. Lemmy got to his feet as Dante shouted "_Follica Medusel!_" and Clarions hair turned into follicles of tiny serpents.

"Always snakes with you, isn't it!?" shouted Clarion, as he attempted to return to hair to normal, all the while squirming as it bit his head.

Iggy managed to hit Dante as he attempted to reply to Clarion, and for a moment the boy seemed to be burning, but he dropped the cloak, which hovered for a moment in the middle of the hall before suddenly being sucked up to the ceiling. Lemmy fired at Dante again, but was too late, the boy jumping from the ceiling had flipped and landed on his feet on the floor.

And on they fought, three against one, each firing spells about madly while they jumped from wall to ceiling to floor and back again. The screwy gravity field made the fight harder, but Clarion and Dante found the challenge welcome and exhilarating. As for Lemmy, he was too busy knitting his brow and trying to crush Dante with a spell to notice the finer points of the battle. Each combatant dueled around the walls of the corridor until up and down lacked meaning, there were four sides, and none of them was anything more than another field to fight upon.

At one point, Iggy came up behind Dante and pinned his arms to his sides, while Clarion pummeled him with blast after blast of punching spell and Lemmy tried to decide which spell would be the most painful to zap the twerp with. He finally decided on a laceration spell, and, after shouting the incantation, let out a gurgling chuckle at the signs of blood which appeared on the boy.

"Bloody hard time you're having here, now isn't it, Eddie?" asked Clarion, lifting the boy's head up by the hair.

Dante spat some of the blood in his mouth at Clarion and said, "Me? I'm just warming up Claire. Why don' you go freshen up in the girls' loo while I have a nice chat with your friends here?"

This time Clarion delivered a swift punch into Dante's gut. "You know what your problem is, brat? You always think you're right about everything! Well guess what, Eddie, you're not. And now, because you don't know shit, you're going to die like the filthy likkle bastard you are!"

"Now see, Claire, that's where you're wrong. Ma 'n Pa was wed when I was born. Makes me a perfectly legit heir. Your own parents were possibly wedlocked when you _happened_, but you know, they don't let women rule."

"SHUT UP! Shut up you little freak, or I swear I'll Cruciatus you right here, right now!"

"You joking me? You haven't done it yet, Claire, and you won't do it all. Even if you did, it would prolly jus' tickle. I mean, come on, since when can you cause anyone pain?"

"Oh that is IT!" shouted Clarion, taking a few steps back along the wall. "You are so going to pay for this. You don't know me, Eddie. I was in jail for killing better wizards than you before you even knew you were part of this House! _Crucio!_"

Dante's scream filled the corridor for a moment, and then Clarion let go of the spell, a small smile covering his pale face. Let that show the brat he could disown his father, cousin and uncles, but that he still wasn't any better than them.

"You know our orders," grunted Lemmy to Clarion, "The Mother wants him alive, if possible. To be turned to the Dark Lord's men when this is done."

"Oh please, the Dark Lord is too great to be troubled by this little brat, surely he won't notice if he dies."

"The Mother will. He's a pureblood, the Dark Lord wants purebloods left alive."

"You know," interrupted Dante, "Who really cares what the Dark Lord wants, anyway? Harry Potter is out there, and he'll stop him."

"Oh shut up, please, Eddie. Harry Potter is a joke. I can't believe you'd go in for such tripe. Where do you find the time?"

"You know, Claire, you may just have a point there? I don't really have time for that sort of thing, but I do have time for this!" With that, his wand soon snapped into his hand whereupon he blasted a spell at Ignatius, sending him flying back along the wall. The battle was then rejoined, with Dante lunging first at Lemmy, sending a spark spell at his face, causing him to drop his wand temporarily. In that moment, Dante snatched it up, and threw the wand toward Lemmy, but not until it was almost too late did anyone notice that Dante had transfigured the wand into a knife.

Clarion managed to deflect the knife, but in doing so had become too distracted to notice Dante send a jelly-leg jinx at him. After deflecting it with a smooth swipe of his wand, Clarion laughed, "Is that the best the light can offer you? Come on, boy, I know you taught yourself better spells than that!"

Just then, Iggy returned, firing jets of green light before him. Someone had finally fired to kill. As Clarion and Lemmy dodged the bolts, Dante exclaimed, "Really Claire? Killing Curses? In this space? But we were having so much fun!"

Clarion shrugged and said, "All things have an end, Eddie-boy."

"So they say," said Dante, sending an exploding spell at Lemmy, who was knocked down the corridor by it, screaming in pain. At that moment, Clarion retaliated by sending a jet of purple flame at Dante, while Iggy continued onward with the Killing Curses. At the last moment Dante swiveled so that he was behind Iggy. Exerting all his force, Dante pushed Iggy in front of the spell. The flames gouged across his skin and he fell from the wall to the ceiling after letting out a blood curdling shriek.

"My God," said Clarion, "You really are the worst thing, aren't you? You threw the man who took you in and raised you as his brother and kept you from eating trash in front of a spell you knew would hurt. Bravo."

"Good people can make mistakes, too Clarion. Not that you'd know. Like you said; you've been killing wizards since before I could wittingly cast spells."

"Yes, and I shall go on doing so for the Dark Lord long after you stop casting them. Not that that's so long from this point any way."

"Well, I suppose the next spell determines that, doesn't it?"

"Oh? Finally ready to kill, are we?"

"Who said anything about killing?"

"Please, as if anything less than death will stop me, Eddie. I've my own orders from The Mother, you know. And those are to break you or bend you. And since I don't really care if you bend, I'll simply tell them all I had to break you."

"My, what a shame."

"Indeed. Ta! _Avada-_,"

"_Crucio!_"

Dante's spell flew faster and hit hardest. Clarion fell to the floor, frothing in pain, and a moment later, the gravity well spells wore off, and all of them fell back to the earth. Dante landed on his feet, crouched down so that his face was near the writhing Clarion's. He leaned closer and spat in his face before whispering, "You know they say its possible you can live through this spell, even if your mind withers at the end, but then again, muggles will be the first to tell you a sufficient amount of pain can kill a man, even if none of it is fatal. So the question comes to this: Who will save you, Clarion, son of Morva, formerly of the House Cristo? Does the Dark Lord really care for an instant how many lives he spends to prove his mastery? And if not, will The Mother finally work up the guts to actually _do_ something? Who will save you Clarion? When you're just a little boy, lost and wandering the world, wishing to God that someone in the universe actually cared that you were alive, crying out in agony, asking, screaming why me, why me, why oh why for the love of all that is holy and sacred, why me? Who will save you? Who will give a damn about you? Let me give you two clues, hm?

"None of the damned good Christian Wizards after the Way of Merlin, that's for certain, and not me."

With that, Dante stood up and walked down the corridor, the sounds of Clarion's screams echoing terribly across the walls. He cast a quick look at Ignatius, but couldn't bring himself to check if he was still alive. That was another life claimed by his enemies, and he would see to it they all suffered for what they did.

As for him, he had a battle to get back to.


	4. Ch 3 Potions

So begins the beginning of Rosalind Celia Arden,

Reader, have hope!

When all is ended,

Rosalind, who is Electra Evangeline Cristo,

Shall be so much more!

PROLOGUE

The dungeons of Hogwarts had exchanged many hands over the years. It had seen brilliant witches and wizards come and go, most of whom had done little with the place. The dungeons changed them, but they did not change the dungeons - until a bright-eyed, willowy lass with a guitar case in her hand and newly procurred Order of Merlin under her belt came striding through the door. She took one look at the dungeons and knew she was back home. The dungeons took several looks at her and decided she could stay.

"'Take me for what I am,'" she declared as she hung a muggle musical poster on the stone walls. She threw pillows and healing crystals around. "'Who I was meant to be!'" She jumped up on the desk, her navel ring gleaming in the candle light. "'And if you give a damn – take me baby or leave me!'"

As unconventional as this new professor was the dungeons decided that they liked her. She brought new life and interest to the classes and the depression lifted off the almost-lowest part of Hogwarts. They laughed at the crushes the young wizards had on their beautiful teacher. The gloomy stones had to admit that the honey-hued hair of the teacher had a certain appeal in green gloom of brewing potions, that her laughter was infectious and mesmerizing, and her music certainly came from those muggle things called 'angels.' Professor Arden loved to play for the students, but only the stone walls saw her release the fiery soul within.

One morning Professor Arden had a visitor – a male visitor. She had never had a man here before and the dungeons did not know if they approved or not. Tall and broad he was with a head of yellow hair! Hufflepuff, they remembered him, and terrible at potions. Drew Walker! He had a wedding band on – tsk tsk – what was the professor up too?

The professor had been sitting at her desk, tuning her guitar, when the Auror had arrived. Her amber eyes reflected surprise, joy, and a hint of worry. She set her instrument aside and rose to greet her guest. No affectionate hug or immediate laughter, but a handshake suited the occasion.

"It's good to see you, Drew," she said in a all-together too smooth of an accent for someone that grew up in London. A hint of a Parisian tone colored her voice. "I see an old face here and there but this truly is a delight! How is Zenith? How's the job? Please, sit." She motioned to the first row of work tables.

"This brings back memories," Drew said as he scanned the vacant dungeon. "I don't have time to stay, Rosey, I'm on the clock. I just needed to come back to ask a few questions."

"I didn't think this was a social visit. A drop of firewhiskey in Hogsmeade would be more our style of a reunion anyway. Not many like to visit this old place."

'Old place?' Hmph! The dungeons were offended.

Drew's smile held sadness. "I should have come to see you sooner."

"You make me sound like something shoved into a hall cupboard that you want to forget about!" Rosalind dropped back down behind her desk and propped her feet up on it. "I am happy, thank you very much! Happy, successful, and my students love me."

"Can you say the same for your colleagues? I heard you been causing a stir in the potions community with your wild theories."

"I do not have 'wild theories,' Drew. What I have are collections of facts that clearly illustrate the importance of -"

"Please," he interrupted, "spare me the lecture, Rosey! I wouldn't understand your babble anyway." He grinned at his old friend from schooldays. "I admit, I never pictured you'd actually do it."

"Do what?"

"Exactly what you said you do in our sixth year, before your mum made you transfer to Beauxbatons. You said you would become a 'famous potions master' and teach at Hogwarts. I always saw you on stage with your bloody guitar and signing autographs. I see you still play." He nodded toward the expensive-looking instrument.

"Oh, well, you know, I keep it in tune." Rosalind leaned back in her seat and stared off into space. She was uncomfortable with the tidal wave of memories that came with Drew. He had been one of her best friends in school. She still liked to think of him as a dear comrade, but now there was a brick wall between them and it had a name. "Please, Drew, cut to the chase. I know why you're here. My answer is still the same as it was two months ago when you sent me an owl."

"C'mon, Rosey, I know you better than that. You were thick as thieves at school and I know you kept in touch over the years."

"I haven't heard from Dante in over eight months, Drew. I don't know where he is and I don't know what he's doing. I'm not his sitter for Godric's Sake!"

"He's cost you a lot, Rosey. Why keep him safe?"

"Not as much as you think, Drew. The different last names helps a bit."

"There aren't many who don't know you're twins. I know that the rumors hurt you, I know that you're innocent, Rosey, but if you don't cooperate then how do I keep people believing that?"

Rosalind narrowed her eyes into bright amber slits. "I am cooperating, Drew. Haven't I answered all of your bloody questions?"

"Rosey-"

"I think you should leave now."

Shaking his head, Drew headed for the door. He turned back to look at his school friend. His blue eyes almost pleaded with her to tell him the truth. "Off the record, Rosey, if you knew where Dante was would you tell me?"

She lost all of her patience. "Cut the melodrama, Drew! Tomorrow you can write me a nice letter asking all of these stupid questions again, but right now, I'm angry at you and I want you to leave. Dante is my twin, but if – IF – he is doing something criminal then of course I would help you find him. Now go away and leave me alone."

Drew rolled his eyes as he was leaving. Some drama queens never grow up.

The dungeons glared at the now-deemed 'intruder' as he left. Stupid boy! Any professor that had the honor of working at Hogwarts did not have to answer to anyone! Especially not some over sized Auror. Oh no! The professor had pulled out a thick, leather-bound volume from the black hole of her desk. She only looked at the thing when she was depressed or tipsy.

She skimmed through childhood photos of her and her adopted parents, pages of her stepbrother and his personal zoo of pets, and pictures of Rosalind herself. Some with guitars and drums, tinkering with machinery, laughing with her stepfather in Italian, and, finally, school years. The latter portion moved, depicting the transition into the wizarding world. She stopped on pages with pictures of a younger Rosalind and Drew Walker, obviously at a Quidditch game, and waving at the camera. She flipped the page to an array of the same two faces – hers and her twin brother. While Rosalind was golden-haired and petite, Dante was tall and fierce-looking. His blues glared into the camera, even when he attempted to look happy and smile.

Rosalind peeled away a picture and held it up to the candlelight. A much younger girl and her brother were pushing each other back and forth in a battle for more room in front of the camera. Her amber eyes grew misty and she returned the image to its place in the album. She closed the book and hid it again in her desk. Very few of her students would dare to search her things, but she didn't like to dally with the possibility. She liked her privacy.

Leaning back in her chair, Rosalind plotted. "Won't leave for a week or so. They expect me to leave right away. Ha! Fat chance!" She shook her head and popped a piece of chocolate into her mouth. "I need a vacation."

It was time to find her twin.

Lyrics from 'Take Me or Leave Me' - Rent


	5. Ch 4 Marco's Attack

Chapter Four – Nine Years Ago in France

The warm wind ruffled her long golden hair around her shoulders. She closed her eyes and breathed the smells of salt and sea. The sunshine caressed her like a pair of mother's hands. Further down, down, down, the voice inside her head went until Rosalind heard nothing except gulls and waves. No more worry, no more homesickness. Opening her eyes, she looked with joy out from her terrace above the beach.

Rosalind leaned on the railing and watched the fishermen on their tiny boats. It had been harsh at first, but the blue Meditarrean had replaced the English Channel in her heart. Though the warm beaches, meals of fish soup and fresh bread, and entirely French conversations were strange at first, she had soon learned to take comfort in them. The stubborn seventeen-year-old hadn't wanted to admit it, but being at Beauxbatons opened new doors, windows, and roads. After months of bitterness she embraced her French heritage and poured herself back into her studies. Her teachers praised her for her excellence. For once, Rosalind did not feel like an outcast among her friends. In an all-girls school when everyone was beautiful, she felt normal. Who could deny that the majority of English women were ugly and ill-mannered? Rosalind did not have to struggle to be something she was not – she didn't have to be pretty and stupid or ugly and smart. The teachers, her friends, the school – they only asked her to be Rosalind and nothing more.

Rosalind idly plucked a flower from the window box and twirled between her slim fingertips. It had all ended too soon and summer vacation was here. Graduated? She could not believe it. She wanted to stay and live in sun and happiness forever. This apartment would do for now but eventually she would have to wake up and begin her life. She knew what she wanted to do – potions. Music and machines were hobbies and they always had been, but potions was her real calling despite what people may tell her. She even had the invitation – right there on her bureau – from a master of renown to come apprentice with him.

With a small sigh Rosalind flipped the bloom away and watched it glide down into the street below. Even now, with her hands eager to mixing and stirring and her mind heavy with recipes and ideas, Rosalind could not tear herself from the Mediterrean. What was she waiting for?

The owl's swoop did not lend any time for Rosalind to jump out of her deep thought. She stepped back in surprise as the bird zoomed around the side of the building and landed elegantly on the railing. Dante's owl and Dante's blood red seal on the letter. The bird did not wait and flew off to return to his master. Rosalind walked into her bedroom, broke the seal, and read the words written in crimson ink.

My Darling Sister,

The deed is done. I have succeeded as I always knew I would. Our detestable father is no longer at the head of the Cristo house. I feel no shame in my joy at seeing him made the fool. It was one of the better pleasures I have ever felt!

Come home, dear sister, and bask in the success with me!

Dante

Slowly Rosalind folded the letter, the crisp paper making a slicing sound through the air. For all the glory her twin felt, she only knew doubled fear. How could Dante be so happy and she be so afraid? She hated their father as much as he did, but all the consequences were boiling in her stomach like a sour potion going bad. So many people would be angry, so many wounds would fester. Their father would certainly seek revenge and their mother...

Selena would seek to force Rosalind back to the country manor. She would want the half of the Cristo fortune that Dante had offered his sister. No, not the money, she wanted the power. Allistair would seek revenge for the embarrassment his son had caused him. Everyone knew how close the twins were and Rosalind was an easy target.

Rosalind sank down to her bed. Terror welled up inside of her throat and she felt like someone was choking her. Dante was in control of the land, law, and fortune now. She had to go – get to him – before either of their parents found her first.

Finding her strength, she jumped up. The fear turned into panic as she raced around her apartment, grabbing clothes and sentimental possessions. Her books and potions equipment could be sent for later. She had to get to Dante! The summer breeze and the smell of the sea had suddenly turned to bitter poison. She had to get out, she had to get to Dante!

Heading for the door, she grabbed up her wand last and stuck it in the back pocket of her jeans. She paused for a split-second to give the apartment a look over. It hadn't sunk in yet that she was leaving. Daring herself to cry, Rosalind straightened and tried to be strong, even though she knew going away would sting like hell in the morning.

As she opened the door, she hid her wand hand behind her back. Her apartment was warded, but the hallway was not. She stepped outside and did not wait to be attacked. She turned and began to jog towards the elevator. She expected magic...

...But not the full blow to her chest as the elevator opened.

Marco reached down and pulled the coughing Rosalind up by her shirt. "You don't need that!" He grabbed her wand and tossed it down the hallway. "It's good to see you, Electra." He swung her around and slammed her against the wall. "But that's right, you prefer 'Rosalind,' _Sì_?"

She stopped struggling, knowing it would do no good against the greasy mammoth of a henchmen. One of her father's stooges. A werewolf stooge at that. Marco could be very dangerous. He had also been stalking her for two years. "What do you want, Marco? Any last message from my father before I cut out your throat?"

"_Sia ancora il mio cuore!_" He laughed and licked his lips suggestively. "A real 'hello' would be nice, little princess. Our last meeting left me craving for more."

Rosalind knew that if Marco really did hurt her, that her mother Selena would capture him and put him through unimaginable tortures. Marco knew it too. It was the only thing that kept him from doing her harm now. His sick fantasy was somewhere between the lines of killing her and eating her flesh to kissing in soft candlelight.

She pushed him off and picked her bag off the floor. "Just tell me what my father wants."

Marco pouted. "Why the course English? Speak to me in my own language."

"And indulge in one of your sick fantasies? I think not." Rosalind leaned against the wall opposite the hitman. She knew if she went for her wand that Marco might get touchy-feely again. She could wait. If her father had ordered her death, she would be dead by now or suffering Marco's deeper touch. "The message, if you please."

He growled. "You're so mean to me! Very well. Your brat of a brother has ousted your father from power. Naturally this will not last long. Your father has sent me to extend an offer to you to join his side. He cares enough to not want you to be caught up in the fire."

"My father has never cared for me or anyone else in his entire life! I should know. Selena sucked his heart out and enjoys telling the story far too much."

Marco chuckled as he walked towards the elevator. "Is that a 'no' then, my sweet?"

"Damned and done since he let the house burn on top of his newborn babes." Rosalind pushed past the werewolf and got into the elevator. "This is my lift!" She told him as he started to join her. "You can wait." She jabbed at the lift buttons and watched the door close on the smirking minion. She dropped her bag and leaned against the padded walls and listened to the boring music. It soothed and tried her nerves at the same time. So? It was back to Britain for her, to find her twin and to see what mess they were in now.


	6. Ch 5 A Villain and His Twin

Chapter V A Villain and His Twin

Nine years would pass between that day in the halls of a falling kingdom and a night that would change the very life of Dante forever. Mundane the years can not fairly be described, but by comparison to what happened after that night, they became less important to history, and here they shall not be recounted. By some they would be recalled as the Lost Years of the Magot, but to most they were considered only the Golden Years of the New Wizarding Order, a period of general peace following the fall of the Dark Lord in which Wizards flourished and grew in power. These years saw the rise of only a few notable villains, including our own.

He stood, twenty-six years of age, dressed in the raiment of the Lord of the Cristos, a wealthy blue robe which was gilt about the edges. It opened at the breast and parted itself, but was always held fast by buttons of fine bronze. His hair was dressed well, parted down the middle and combed neatly off to the sides. He looked healthy and lordly, and there were only a few in the House of Cristo who still remembered him as the Traitor who had cast down their old ways.

But rumors and ghosts of the past still hounded him. The servants in his house said he often woke in the night screaming in terror, and the NWO was ever wary of him. For, careful as he was about his life of crime, his history preceeded him. He was helpful in the hunt for the Master of Shadows, in fact, Lord Cristo was found to be a staunch financial reporter of the NWO. So much so that he held a special kind of aura, almost as though he were an untouchable demi-god.

On that night he stood gazing out a window. It was only May, but the weather was beautiful. The sun had shone that whole day, and now the moon was full and lit the night sky as a symbol of hope for the coming day. The stars, too, shown brightly, acting as constant witnesses to all the deeds of the night.

Only just a few moments ago, the Lord of the House had watched a woman exit an automobile and be admitted to the mansion. In the old days, everything about that picture would have been wrong. The Cristo mansion, though not unplottable, would never have allowed an automobile through the front gates, a fact which had often disturbed the muggle socialites who had (admittedly rarely) come to meet the current Lord. Furthermore, had an automobile made it past the gates, a woman on her own would not simply be able to have the door be opened and walk in on her own. All women had been required to be accompanied on their entrance.

But this woman would do as she pleased, and even the Lord of the House dared not oppose her, not that he would have ever wanted to. Behind her back, some of the Old Regime that had remained in the House called her cynically the Lady of the Cristos, and they accepted her even less than they did the boy who ruled them. For this, this _woman_ looked more like her deluded mother than any esteemed Cristo ever should. Her brother may look like his father and grandfather, but she, well, she was unacceptable!

The moments had now passed, and the Lady had found her way to Dante's study. He turned from the window and cast a dour look upon her. She was dressed as a muggle, in blue-jeans and a short-sleeved shirt, hardly appearing anywhere near as rich as she was. But after the split-second of stiff-neckedness, a warm smile graced his face. He quickly crossed the room and embraced her.

"Rosalind, how is my favorite sister?"

"I'm your only sister you dork." She answered playfully.

"We have a half-sister, too."

"Well in that case, you shouldn't be picking favorites, should you?"

"Would it really be right to favour a half-sister over a twin sister? She's only half related to me, according to some mythologies, you are me."

"Now there's a scary thought. I'd hate to have to dress like that."

"I happen to like this outfit. It makes me look regal."

Taking a step back, Rosalind said, "Better not let them hear you saying that, Dante, who knows how that'd offend their whole 'Way of Merlin' thought processes."

"I'd rather have to listen to why wizards should never be kings than to why my blood makes me better than people who've done about a million better things than me."

"That bad, huh?"

"You have _no_ idea."

"So enlighten me. What the hell does all this 'Good Christian Wizard after the Way of Merlin,' mean?"

"It's a little dry, you really want to hear all of that?"

"I've got time to kill. No one knows I'm here yet."

"Alright then. The whole thing goes back to the Arthur legends. Essentially, the predecessors of our family who fought in the Crusades pointed out a lot of similarities between Christ and Merlin. Surprising abilities, alleged virgin births, prophetic powers, etc. They also pointed out the similarities between Christ and Arthur, kingship, twelve followers, and a list of other things I can't name off the top of my head. So to them, if a wizard was to be truly great, he should understand the lives of the three greatest men (to them) in the world. Christ, the son of God, Arthur, the Sword-King, and Merlin, the greatest wizard of all time. They noted that Merlin, who was the most powerful wizard of his age, who is credited with bringing wizards out of their town-hut lifestyles, served an ordinary, one-hundred percent muggle king. Merlin, who could have bent Britain to his will, was content to serve a muggle. Somewhere along the way they forgot that Merlin's mother was a muggle, too, so that even if the virgin birth story was true, he was still a half-blood at the least. In any case, they also noted that Arthur united what amounted to a bunch of feudal lords under his banner and turned back the greatest invasion of his day. He was a muggle who did bend Britain to his will. But Arthur, they noted, also was just a servant, calling off his war with Lancelot at the request of the Pope, and sending his knights on a quest for the Holy Grail, meaning, Arthur served Christ, who of course served God. Thus, to be 'after the Way of Merlin' means a wizard should endeavor to serve the crown and never aspire to it, and to serve also the God of the crown, rather than allow his powers to let him think he himself is a god."

"You honestly stuffed all of that into your tiny brain?"

"Hey! The things you have to know to be High Patriarch of this fortune- er, family, are excruciatingly detailed. I can also deliver three different discourses on why it isn't a betrayal of purebloods to serve their king, muggle or no."

"Well I'm glad I don't have to know any of that stuff, it sounds hard as hell to learn."

"Not as hard as all that potions stuff I hear you've been spewing lately."

"Hey, my theories are only controversial because the people who hear them are too easily offended!"

Feigning shock, Dante said, "Believe me, I know only too well how easily people misunderstand brilliance. If you'll recall they've now denied me a total of six times for ministerial duties in the Department of Experimental Magics. They continue to insist my inventions are somehow more hazardous than they ought to be. Thankfully they cannot bar me from advising the Wizengamot or the Minister. But then, that's probably proof enough that the system has never been fixed."

Her smile suddenly fading, Rosalind lowered her eyes for a moment before saying, "Actually, Dante, the hazardous charms are kinda why I'm here."

Dante's smile quickly left him, too. "They've sent Aurors to you at school again, haven't they? I can fix that for you, I can. Give me the Auror's name, I'll have him and his superior thrown out on the street!"

"No!" Rosalind gasped, catching the violent gleam in her twin's eye. "No, it isn't that! I mean-,"

"Someone we know, then?"

"That's not the point!"

"An old boyfriend, maybe?"

"Dante! I'm hear because everyone says you're the one behind this whole Master of Shadows charade!"

"Oh, that."

"Yes, that! Now you know I try not to pry too much into your, er, hobbies, but Dante, the things they say you've done as this Master of Shadows!"

"They can say I've done all sorts of things, but who can really trust anything the Ministry ever says? I don't care if they've got Potter in there or not, they're as dishonest as ever."

"Are you the Master of Shadows?"

"If I was, don't you think it would defeat the point to divulge my secret identity?"

"That's low, Dante, real low. I'm your sister, you know I'm not going to just go sell you to the ministry."

"No, but who knows what you'd say if they forced you to drink the veritaserum? It's an old Ministry stand-by, you know. They've never really cared about human, or for that matter, non-human rights."

"So you are him?"

"If I am, I am certainly not as bad as they say I am. Media distorts to its own pleasure."

"Dante, please!"

"Why is this so important? The Master of Shadows is hardly more than a thief with a bad habit of showmanship, appearing just often enough to be seen and wind up leaving someone with a near-fatal wound. I'd never admit to being such a poor rogue. Besides, why would I steal if I'm as rich as I am?"

"Because you're never looking for money when you take things, Dante. You're looking for ways to cause people you don't like pain. You're telling me it's coincidence that the Master of Shadows always steals from people who are your enemies?"

"I'd hardly say he does that. Last month he stole a golden bust of Simon Slytherin from Jerred Gaggle, and I've never even met Gaggle before."

"Gaggle was a wizard supremist. Everyone in this nation knows you can't stand purebloods who think muggles are inferior. Gaggle was going to sell that bust for money to stay out of debt, without it he went bankrupt."

"So? If wizards are so supreme, couldn't he have just transmuted some gold for himself?"

"See! There you go! It is exactly your idea of a joke, Dante! You have to be careful! If they catch you and throw you in Azkaban, I'll, I'll-,"

"What, Azkaban? Please, there is absolutely nothing scary about that place. They don't even keep Dementors there anymore."

"That's not the point!!"

Rosalind, growing progressively more angry, reached out to knock some sense into her twin, only to have him duck and her arm miss. It swung past him and into a clock on the mantle, knocking it onto the floor by his feet. The clock had never once in all the time Dante had owned the study worked, and now as it lay shattered in a thousand fragments of broken time and wood he at last knew why.

Inside the clock was a roll of parchment, no more than five inches wide, but rather long once unrolled.

Dante held it up before him and read the paper once. His eyes grew wide and his mouth opened. He did not say anything for a long time.

After a moment Rosalind demanded, "What? What is it? Let me see!"

Dante, hands shaking, handed her the parchment.


	7. CH 6 Receipt for an Angel

CHAPTER VI Receipt for an Angel

Rosalind's voice filled the otherwise silent room, shaking as it did so. She read the letter aloud, her own face growing white as she progressed. It began:

_"The following is a receipt for an order placed by a one Iron King of the organization collectively known as the Wand Reapers, to be filled by a one The Mother, of the neophyte Order of The Mother, and delivered to the Iron King upon completion. The purchase, referred to hereafter as the purchase, is of one Angel of Death, to willingly and obediently carry out the purpose of the Iron King. The purchase is the culmination of the philosophical research of the Iron King and an associates, and is to be set as the ultimate goal of the Order of The Mother, due to the considerable amount of finance the Wand Reapers have afforded to the Order to ensure its stable beginnings. _

_"An estimated length of time for the completion of the purchase is between twenty-six and twenty-seven years after the date of its conception, which is nine months prior to this day, the seventh of August. The purchase is to be delivered at such time, and penalties shall be levied should the due date fail to be met._

_"The undersigned are witness to this receipt, and shall sign by the names they shall be bound to or have been previously bound to, following the signature of this receipt. The purchase is inevitably the sole property of the Iron King, and cannot be claimed by any of his Wand Reapers, regardless of influence in philosophical discussions, nor any members of the Order of The Mother, disregarding even major contributions to the experiments designed to promote the perfection of the purchase. The purchase can not be claimed even by the two persons responsible for its primal crafting._

_"Signed,_

_**"The Iron King, The Grey Warden, The Wight-Cardinal, The Grave-Singer, The Skull-Grinder.**_

_**"Wand Reapers, first and only class.**_

_**"The Mother, Djinn, Tiamat, Gaia, Shiva, Eva.**_

_**"Order of The Mother, First Class.**_

_**"Selena C. Mortifae,**_

_**"Emerald Lady."**_

For a moment the two twins stood in silence as Rosalind finished, and then one spoke.

"Selena Mortifae," she said, "Do you know who that is?"

"Mother Dearest, if I'm not mistaken."

"Yeah, that's her handwriting alright."  
"Do you know what this means?"

"No, not in the slightest."

"Me either. That's what scares me the most."

"Who do you suppose these Wand Reapers are?"

"Who cares? What I want to know is why it was in Allistair's clock and signed by our own mother."

"Dante?" Rosalind looked at her brother and saw that a great change had come over him. He no longer resembled a puffed up bird, nor did he appear to be frightened. His face had flushed with color again, and his eyes were ablaze. All was clearly not right in the heart and mind of Dante Magus.

He slammed a fist onto his desk and said, "I am so _sick_ of this! So sick of these stupid riddles and enigmas, these damn mysteries and mysterious persons!" He picked up a small crystal ball off the desk that had been in the family since Adama Mercurius Cristo I, a noteable Seer in his day, had been High Patriarch, and chucked it across the room like so much garbage. He shouted angrily, "It's all so poorly written, Rosalind! All the facts of our life, like the jumbled writings of a fifteen year old boy, still trying to make it up as he goes along! I can't stand this any more, and I won't stand for it. You wanted to know if was the Master of Shadows? Yes, yes damn it I am! I'm him and I am so I can find out more about all this, this, preposterous slop that we've been told is the truth about our lives!

"Maybe you don't feel it, because you have a happy life and were taken in by a family that loved you, but every day, every hour, ever God damn _second_ of my life it is with me! I can't escape the feeling, the ever-gnawing feeling that I was thrown away, that no one came for me, that I had to find these grumpy old farts myself, that for year after year of my life I endured abuse and misuse at the hands of the people who were charged with caring for me!

"Well no more! I'm done with this mystery, and I'm so sick of this game. I'm leaving, and I'm not coming back until I find The Mother and this Iron King and get straight to the bottom of this, this farce of a life! Did you read that thing Rosalind? Twenty-six years? It was talking about us!"

"You think I don't feel it Dante!" Rosalind answered, her eyes displaying how hurt she was by her brother's words, "You think I don't stay up all night wondering why I was thrown away, why no one in a family this powerful could find me, why I spent all those years not knowing anything? I do, Dante, I do! The difference between us is that I haven't let the past eat up my future! Let it _go_ Dante, let it go. Don't go chasing after this. You can't! You have a whole list of people who need you now. I need you, don't just run off like this!"

Dante looked at Rosalind for a moment, entirely shut up by how rude he'd been. He opened his mouth once or twice to say something, but thinking better of it, kept it shut. At last he said, "I don't owe them anything. They never came looking for us, so they can all hang until I put an end to these lies. I'm done playing this game, Rosalind."

"Then stay for me! Don't go getting yourself killed for nothing, stay for me! Or if you won't stay, take me with you!"

"No, I can't do that. You have a life, Ros, I can't take you from that."

"And you don't!? There a children you'll be starving if you go, Dante. There parents have no money to feed them, all of it is yours. In your quest for revenge, all you've done is make a hundred more children just like you!"

"And their parents will feel what I felt, and I will live with that."

"But what about those children!?"

"Why don't their fat, stuffy parents just go get jobs, huh Rosalind? Some people work for a living! They work and work and work until they drop dead, everything they loved having slowly been robbed of them! If those children starve, its because their parents are too damn lazy to go and work! I am going, and I'm not staying any longer in this place than I have to, so if you don't mind, I'd love to stop arguing so I can start packing!"

There was a pause, a moment where both were quite silent, and then the two ran to each other and embraced again. They clung on to their last moment, each wondering if the other would ever see them again, each hoping against hope that they were making the right choice.

"You're the biggest idiot I've ever known," Rosalind whispered.

"Hey, sis, would you really have me any other way?"

"Don't call me sis," Rosalind said, picking up her spirits and stepping back, "No one in real life ever calls their sister "sis,""

"Didn't I just do that?"

"Yeah, but you're the one who said this was all rather poorly written, weren't you?"

"So I was, so I was. Right then," he said, mustering his courage, "I've never been any good at spatial alterations, so I'll need your help preparing my bag."

"Bag? You're only taking one?"

"A) Rosalind, a good wizard should only ever need one bag any way, and B) I'm afraid I'll soon be on the run."

"Ah, yes, our dear friends the Aurors."

"Yes, come along then, we'd best get started if I'm to make it out of here without attracting attention."

"As if you could really do that."


	8. Ch 7 The Iron King Arrives

CHAPTER VII The Iron King Arrives

At that same moment, across the miles from that happy argument, in a Castle which stood both high above and far beneath the surface of the Earth, a door blew wide open. Well, not blew so much as exploded. Regardless of the verb, the door came open violently, and in stormed five nightmares. They were both smooth and jagged, rending the visions of those that beheld them, and worming their way through the great hall.

The first and foremost of these garish monsters was a wraith in black, as all of them were, who wore a tall iron crown and mask, concealing the whole of his face. His sleeves, long though they were, could not conceal the long, slender wooden claws which protruded from them. The second in that demonic cavalcade was a shorter figure that wore a tall vicar's hat that covered all his face save his eyes. It was black, like all his garb, save the red field upon which the black cross stood. His fingers were long and pale, almost inhuman, and the left ones clutched a short, stubby wand. The third was a slender form, almost feminine beneath the robes, that seemed to be made of air and ether. In both of its slim hands was gripped a longer wand of a brighter shade. The fourth was a cold form, nothing more than a robe, almost, that seemed to float through the air. Only one of its hands was exposed, and it was a rotted, filthy one, caressing an ancient stick that seemed as rotted as the hand that held it. The fifth was a massive bulk of a man, and the robes that hid it seemed to be more of a tent than clothing. It was definitely solid, as it stomped mightly as it moved. It grasped a wand that was almost a staff, as large and long as it was, and about its cloak were sheathed several smaller ones.

The terrors had entered a throne room that was filled with pipes of all manners that lined the walls and floors. The throne itself was made of pipes as well, and behind it was another throne which sat before a mighty keyboard, one that controlled the entire organ system of the castle. Upon the first throne was seated a body in a purple cloak and a shirt of shining plate mail. The face was obscured by a large mirror-shield in the shape of a tear drop.

On either side of the chair were like-robed forms, each more feminine than the androdgynous ruler they surrounded. To the left was a form in green that wore a wooden mask and another in blue wearing an ornate mask of polar bear fur. To the right was a woman in orange wearing a mask of human skull, a woman in red wearing a mask of dragon skull, and a woman wearing a mask of feathers. Each of these shapes had a wand visible as well, but they stood aloof, feeling comfortable in their own domain.

The crowned shape stepped away from his wraiths and said loudly, "Tell me what you love most, that I might have the pleasure of laying waste to it, tell me what makes you strong, that I may whittle it away from you, tell me what you cherish most about life, that I may deaden it for you. Tell me, Mirror-Maker, why I should spare you when you are not at this very moment presenting to me my Angel of Death?"

This was the Iron King of the Wand Reapers. Poetic, but to the point. Vicious, but lordly, too. He was a wizard to be feared, with an international reputation so unspeakable, that in many places of the underworld, he was still referred to as "The Iron Death" or even "Iron." He was not to be denied under any circumstance. Anyone who had ever denied him had met their fate slowly and terribly.

"My dear Iron King," answered the throned figure, "Do you really mean to tell me you have come all this way to demand your Angel a full year early?"

This was The Mother, a less fearsome, albeit more active element of the criminal world of wizards. The Mother was a druglord, specializing in the trafficking of a substance called "Spell Crystals," a powder of dubious origins that had the twofold effect of greatly increasing a wizard's senses and magical capabilities while at the same time loosening their grip on reality. Highly addictive, highly lucrative. The only problem? The sellers got mixed up with the buyers too often and business would get messy. The Mother preffered enigmas to stealth, but to the Aurors and Dark Wizard hunters the world over, both were classified as "Screwy Screwballs famous for Screwing with the Screwy."

"A year early? I was under the impression that production began over twenty years ago, and I have yet to see anything to prove it! Surely after twenty-six years you must have something to show?"

Rising from the throne, The Mother said, "Ah, my dear friend, would you have me spoil the surprise after all these years? Can you not wait for Father Christmas one year more? Soon you'll have your toy, and all we have worked these many years for will at last be completed. Surely one year is not too long to wait for this?"

"Do not speak to me as though I were a child! And I will thank you to refrain from referring to that archaic event. The Angel will usher in a new era, and Santa Claus will not do anything about it."

"Of course, but what do you say to my proposal? Return in one year and I shall present to you your Angel of Death."

"One more year, you say? No, no I shall not leave you to hastily prepare a mock-up and devise more schemes for a full year. I shall wait the year out here. The Wand Reapers and I shall reside here, in your humble abode, and we shall make certain that we are not cheated for our patience."

"As you wish, Iron King. As you wish. Gaia, Shiva, Eva, Tiamat and Djinn will each be pleased to accommodate you during your stay. I trust though that we shall still be free to move about our business? I have since raised a lucrative empire and would like to ensure that it runs well right up to the end."

"You may keep your venture for as long as you think you can manage it, Mirror-Maker, but you must first answer this: Where is the Emerald Lady?"

"Ah, she has not attended for a long time, Iron King, as I am afraid she had differing opinions on the way the project ought to be run. She also had different ideas about who should run the project."

"A pity, I suppose, but her work on the project has been completed anyway, I trust?"

"Oh yes, the Emerald Lady did more than her fair share for the project before leaving it . . ."

The Iron King tilted his crown a moment, attempting to pierce the mirrored mask with his veiled eyes, and in doing so discover the meaning of his old friend's riddles. He let it pass and said to the Wand Reapers, "Warden! Cardinal! Singer! Crusher! Follow the women to your rooms. Settle in, mates, we've a long year ahead of us."

After the minions of the respective villains had left the room, the Iron King and The Mother were left alone with one another. A great silence filled the chamber, and could be felt in the very bones of both beings. After a long moment, one of them spoke.

"Riddle me this," said the one, "If a man sees eternity in its entirity, does he go mad or does he become God?"

Answered the other, "Who cares?"


	9. Ch 8 A Bad Trip to the Bar

Chapter VIII: A Bad Trip to the Bar

Three days had passed since Dante had departed his home. From what he understood, Rosalind had put in a request to Hogwarts for some time off, and the Headmistress had allowed it. He was not certain now what his sister was up to, but Dante could not allow much thought on that subject. Today he had broken into the home of Rexula Montebottom, a respected Wizard with ties to the Gringotts banking franchise. Rexula had not been home that day, and was quite surprised an hour ago when he returned home and found much of the interior of his home in ruins. In his den on what was left of his desk there was, hovering, the image of a black eagle. The Master of Shadows had found him at last.

Rexula, in addition to his ties to the Gringotts franchise, also had less reputable ones. He had ties to the underground trade of Spell Crystals, or Spelkryst, as it was known to those who used it, and was of the opinion that he was higher up in the echelons of that business. Incorrect as Rexula may or may not have been, he did have sensitive information at his own home tying the English sales of Spelkryst to a person called The Mother. When he reached his home, Rexula discovered these documents were missing, and, when he contacted the Aurors, he made certain to leave them out of the list of damages.

Dante now sat in a shadier pub in London, drinking little and listening to the conversations going on around him. Harry Potter was going to get another medal for apprehending the Black Wind, which was a crying shame, because the Black Wind had been one of the best Dark Wizards Dante had ever known. The guy had had real honor, and that had undoubtedly been his undoing. Turned out Wind was actually none other than little Trent Gupp, a real treat there: Gupp had been a fat nobody in school, and had been hounded nonstop during all the tumultous years he went there. They said Gupp was in good shape now, but that he could expect to lose those pretty muscles where he was going.

Dante accepted another drink from the bar keep, barely glancing up from his glass. He'd only had one so far tonight, and he didn't expect to finish this one. He wanted to feel sober, wanted to feel sad about Gupp's arrest. Gupp had a son, he'd been divorced for a few years now, and had only taken the mantle back up to pay the child support, it sounded. Trent was a perfect example of what he could have been if he hadn't successfully pulled off his hostile takeover, and because of that, Dante felt the matter was worth reflecting on.

Not that he had much else to do while he waited for his appointment to make a move. The appointment was unaware she was one, and also unaware that Dante was aware of her. But then, that tended to happen when someone followed you all the way from the scene of your latest crime, through a series of stores and even a theater, to your present location, and forgot to cloak themselves in any way. Carelessness would get one nowhere these days, especially not if they were playing the Dark Magic game.

So when a faux-gruff voice behind him said, "Hey punk, yer in ma seat!" Dante did nothing at first. After another prod from the gruff voice's wand, Dante whipped out of his chair and, in a fluid movement, was now facing the voice, carrying its wand in his hand. As a lad he would never have pulled off that feat. Now, though, now he was an elemental force of the world, and there was nothing he could not do.

Mercedes scowled and put her hands to her hips. She was not impressed. So what if he could take her wand without magic? What was the point? She never could understand the workings of her half-brother's brain, but then, she had far less contact with him than her step-brother, who had, during the earlier years, monopolized him. Those days were over, though, and for tonight, the boy was her's.

"Edmond, whatever are you doing here? Shouldn't you be at home, lording it up with all your ill-gotten gains?" Asked Mercedes as she twiddled with her hair. She resembled her father in some ways, but could never be certain if that was a good thing or not. She certainly didn't want to look like her mother, that she knew, but her father had been no less impressive when he had been alive, and to Mercedes, impression was everything.

"Shouldn't you be somewhere, getting married for profit?" Retorted Dante. "You've been following me all day, so what is it you're looking for?"

If he'd expected Mercedes to look surprised about being caught, he would have been sorely disappointed. She almost seemed to laughing to herself about it, like she'd meant for him to think he was so clever seeing her follow him. This thought Dante shrugged off, caring little whether he'd been duped or not.

"Who says I want anything? Maybe I'm just interested in the well being of my little brother."

"I'd find that easier to believe if we weren't related."

"Oh, you and your paranoia. When are you going to get over it, Eddie? Yes, the House burned down, so what? You're alive, and you're rich. Shouldn't that be enough?"

"Mercedes, unless what you say next is very important, I _will_ kill you with your own wand."

Mercedes stopped a second, trying to decide if the boy was capable of it or not, and, deciding he wasn't, she said, "Come now, how about I buy you a drink, you hand me back my wand, and we discuss this like the adults we both are."

"Adults? You're nearly fourty, aren't you? You'll be a senior soon!"

Mercedes was about to knock Dante upside the head for this little remark when she recalled just who held the wands. Fourty indeed! She composed herself is, "Drinks, then?"

"Get one for yourself, 'Cedes. I don't drink anymore."

"Oh? Starting when?"

"Starting now. You know what, why don't you skip the drink, too, huh? Your liver will thank you."

"Oh please, like that can't be fixed with magic!"

"Alright, how about this: You get your wand and your drink _after_ you tell me whatever it is that's so important. The less alcohol you're shoving down your throat, the more you can talk. Start talking."

Mercedes effected a cute look of absolute innocence and ignorance, and then said, "I haven't the slightest what you're talking about!"

"And I haven't the slightest which two spell to try first. I can dual-cast, you know. My brain can handle all the equations involved in two spells simultaneously, did you know that? I didn't. Not until I turned twenty. You know something, so why not spill it?"

"If you must," she groaned, taking a seat next to him. "Two spells at once, huh? That's impressive. They say most wizards can only handle the calculations for a single spell at a time. Of course the purists demand that Merlin was able to do more."

"Do you have a point here?"

"You don't want to discuss history? Perhaps religion then . . . ?"

"You were telling me something important?" Dante said, avoiding being bated further by his half-sister.

"Yes, on the subject of the divine, no less."

Dante eyed her suspiciously, the wands still tilted in her direction through his sleeves. "Divine?"

"Yes, I heard from someone you found a receipt-,"

"Your point?"

"I know someone who knows something about it."

"Oh really?"

"Yes, really. My, but you're not liable to trust anyone, aren't you?"

"Who do you know, Mercedes?"

"Why, I know the Weevil, of course."

"Weevil? What does that sod-head know?"

"He said things were going berserk at his workplace, he mentioned someone looking for an Angel of Death, and that his boss wasn't quite willing to deliver. Stupid one, that Weevil, but his loose lips are _so_ useful."

"I'm sure you feel they are."

There was a loud crash behind them and the occupants of the bar turned to see four people standing over the broken form of the door, wands held forward. The forward most advanced and twirled his wand in his hand. He smiled politely and looked about himself before turning his head to the nearest of his companions.

"See to it that the Obliviators arrive promptly."

"The Obliviators? Sir, these are wizards!"

"Not all of them. There's a hag over in the corner, and at least two runaway House Elves as well. But that's aside from the point. There is no need for this to have ever happened."

"But, sir!"

"That was an order. See to it that the Obliviators arrive here before anyone else leaves."

"Aye, sir."

The man in the lead stepped into the now roused crowd and called out, "Has anyone here seen a man, say, six feet, broad, dark hair, blue eyes? He's a wanted criminal, and the first one of you to bring him to me will be granted amnesty."

"You've a lot of nerve, Drew Walker, comin' in here and assumin' we're criminals!"

"I'd be quiet, if I were you, Ferguson. You're wanted for owning a Hand of Glory, so unless you'd like a trip to Azkaban, you'd better be quick with turning me the man I want."

"You've no need to bother these people," called Dante, getting up, sliding Mercedes her wand. "The Master of Shadows is not here."

"Really?" Replied Drew, "Because I see him right now."

"Are you going to make a charge against the Head of House Cristo? Mind your position, Mr. Walker."

"You're not one for formalities, Dante. You've been away from home three days. I hear children are starving because you've been gone so long."

"Well, Drew, I can't say as its any of your business."

"Then I suppose I shall make it my business. Dante Magus, Head of the House of Cristo, I accuse you of being The Master of Shadows, petty thief and dark wizard!"

"Petty thief!?"

"We will be detaining you now."

"Cocky, aren't you tonight, Drew? I'm afraid that you will not be doing that at all."

Drew took a step forward, hand on his wand holster. He looked like some kind of royal cowboy, a wild west knight, even, except that he was reaching for a wand instead of a sword or gun. He said as calmly as he could, "Come quietly Dante. I don't want to have to hurt you."

"You won't be hurting anyone tonight, Drew. Go home and tell your Minister that all is not well in the trenches, hm? I heard you arrested the Black Wind recently. Do you mind if I make a small observation: Trent Gupp was a talented dark wizard, probably one of the best in Britain since the Death Eaters-," a murmur ran through the crowd at the mention of the Death Eaters. "But the Master of Shadows is something more than a dark wizard. He is almost an aspect of magic itself."

"Please Dante, no more wacky riddles. Just come quietly and everything will go smoothly. Rexula Montebottom just wants his journal back."

"Do you know what is in Rexula Montebottom's journal, Drew?"

"No, I don't. I don't go stealing other people's private things for giggles and grins."

"Ah, well, since you've wounded me so deeply with your scathing remark, I will surrender the journal."

"You mean-?"

"Yes, I, Lord Cristo, am indeed the Master of Shadows!" Dante flicked his wand and there was a spiral of smoke and a shower of black flames. "And I've a few words to share with you. Rexula Montebottom is a criminal. His journal is rife with proof of his work with Spelkryst traffickers. Journal? It's a notebook! It's full of records of shipments. Read it yourself!" Dante flicked his wand again and the journal snapped into his hands from regions unknown. He sent it at Drew, who caught it swiftly enough.

"And I suppose that the House of Cristo will be profiting immensely from the fall of Rexula Montebottom?"

"Drew, do I ever do anything that does _not_ profit the House of Cristo? Mercedes!"

Mercedes snapped to and said, highly amused, "Yes, your lordship?"

"As a member of the House, I authorize you to, heh, feed the children with the profits from the fall of M. Montebottom."

"That's highly amusing, Dante, but you're still under arrest."

Dante disapparated from his place by the bar and, with a crack, appeared behind Drew and his Aurors. He said cheerfully, "Not if you can't catch me, I'm not." He leaned backward and fell through the doorway, springing from his hands to his feet again in the middle of the storm. With that he disapparated again, and the Aurors charged after.

"This isn't over," Drew grumbled as he dashed from the bar into the street, spying Dante on a rooftop nearby. "Not by a long shot."


	10. Ch 9 After the Rooftop

Dante and the woman he had grabbed reappeared inside a dimly lit chamber, electric, not magic, that was furnished with many shelves of alcohol, with a few stools and ladders here and there. There was a sound of water dripping somewhere, but no sinks were visible. There was only one door, and it did not lead to the alley outside. Where it lead, Dante did not know, but he was certain it did not lead to the alley. It was on the wrong side of the building, and it faced inward, not out.

Releasing the woman from his grasp, he took a moment to dry himself out before turning to assess his new acquaintance. She was his age, or thereabouts, but nearly half a foot shorter than he. She was average in almost every way: a plain face, normal brown hair, standard waist and bust ratios (below average, he thought with minor disappointment), drab muggle clothes: slacks and a blouse beneath a heavy over coat- a work uniform, perhaps- and generic shoes. Altogether there was nothing of note about this woman, and for this Dante was slightly thankful.

"What the hell just happened out there!?" Asked the woman, confused and startled. She'd seen it with her own eyes, but she still could not believe it. "Where did that wall come from? Did we just . . . teleport?"

"I wouldn't worry too much about it," Dante remarked, eyeing one of the bottles on a shelf near him.

"Why not?"

"Well," he said, turning back to her, "it isn't like you're going to remember any of this in an hour anyway."

"What?" Her every-day face contorted into one of confusion and fear.

Sighing, Dante explained, "The Obliviators will find you, and when they do, _poof!_ No more memories."

"Now hold on just a minute," she said, becoming slightly vexed, "I don't suppose you mind letting me in on your magic show, do you?"

"Now there's an interesting proposition."

"A what? I'm not proposing anything!"

"Why don't you join the magic show, hmm?"

"What, that was magic? Real magic? You froze the rain and teleported us here?"

"Froze the rain? I'm the reason it's raining in the first place."

"Alright then Mr. Mystic Man, how about you show me some proof, eh?"

"Very well," Dante said, producing his wand. "Everything you know about the world is about to change. Alongside the every day human there has, for longer than any can be certain of, been a race of wizards and witches. We have our own societies, schools, and even on rare occasions our own towns. Whereas the man of science is powerful, ever-present, and dominant, the magic man hides, and pretends at greatness. But the magic man can do things, things like _this_." He flicked his wand and the bottles of alcohol flew from the shelves and opened in mid air.

The amber liquid danced through the sky, eventually flowing into a writhing ribbon mass above their heads. When all the bottles were empty, the mass began to unfold. The ribbons flowed back into the bottles, sealing neatly and resting back on the shelves when they were done.

"God . . ." whispered the woman. "You really _are_ a wizard."

"So? How about it? Want to see how far the rabbit hole goes?"

"Are you kidding?"

"No, but I think I'll give you a warning before you agree. I'm not the best person in the magical world, but I promise I'll never treat you as a lesser person for your lack of magic."

"What do you mean not the best person? Are you some kind of villain, eh?"

"That's debatable. I am, at the very least, a criminal."

"Brilliant. I meet a wizard and he's a terrible bloke."

"Yes, but what terrible means is up to debate, too. After all, the government is about to send wizards to erase your memories of this evening. I am offering you protection from that. Your memories are your own, and no one has the right to touch them without your permission."

"Right then," she said, nodding her head, "I'm with you."

Dante extended his hand and said, "Beyond this point, there's no going back. The world changes after this, you know that, don't you? I can let you go back to the life you had, or you can come with me and we'll have a time of it."

She took his hand and said, "I know. I'm Beatrice, Beatrice Barnes. My friends call me Trice. You are . . . ?"

"An excellent question. At the moment, we'll just go with Dante Magus. But that's kind of what we'll be trying to answer on this trip."

"I'm sorry, what?"

"Nevermind. Take a look around you, we won't be coming back here any time soon."

"It's only work, I'm not going to miss it."

"You're a barista?"

"Yeah, so?"

"And she said it'd be a cop."

"Come again?"

"Nevermind. Let's go!"

"How?"

"Hold on tight."

There was a loud _crack_ and the two of them were gone. Several seconds later there were three more _cracks_. Drew Walker, flanked by two Obliviators, appeared in the storeroom. He took a look around him and then said to the first Obliviator, "Send word back to HQ. Dante Magus is missing and he has a muggle hostage. The International Statute of Secrecy has now been broken wide open. He is now Undesirable Number One. Get me Harry Potter."

Elsewhere, on the shores of Ireland, Dante and Trice _cracked_ into the world, gripping each other tightly. The two held the pose a moment, then separated to take stock in their new surroundings. They'd jumped from a rainstorm into a frigid cold night, from inside to out. Above them, the stars glared menacingly, silent watchers threatening to snitch to wizard eyes.

"Welcome," Dante said with a wry grin, "to the outside of the law."

"How-how did-we? Where are we?"

"Ireland. Well, Northern Ireland, actually . . . I think. We're somewhere near the border, so I can't be certain."

"That's absolutely brilliant! This is amazing. We teleported?"

"Well, apparated, but it means the same thing, give or take. This could be a problem, though, not knowing which country we're in. I've a friend who is an Irish Wizard, but I can't recall having great standing with the Northern Irish ones."

"Can't you just teleport us into Ireland, then?"

"No, no, that wouldn't do. I came here because the spot is disputed, so it'd be hard for Ministry officials to understand where I am."

"What exactly do you mean by that, anyway?"

"What, Ministry officials? Simple, really. Muggle governments are seen as too beauracratic by Wizard politicians, and so they forwent a large number of things and now a nation's government is centralized, domineering, and easily over-thrown. But hey, Magic is Might, and rights are not something we have many of in the wizarding world."

"You make yourself sound like a hero."

"Me? No, no hero, just someone who isn't very good at playing with others."

"A criminal."

"More or less. White collar jobs mainly. I'd like to say it was rob from the rich give to the poor, but honestly, I can never get that second half down quite right."

"So what are we doing in Ireland?"

"Well, if we're lucky, stepping out of England will slow down the Ministry, especially since we're out of their jurisdiction. Have you ever heard about the monkey that chased the weasel?"

"Well, yes, but I can't say I see how that means much."

"Me either, I was just hoping that wasn't something my brain made up. We've come to see a man called Weevil. He's an expert at sneaking into an organization and ripping it to pieces. At the moment, I can't say I know what he's doing in Ireland. Whatever it is, though, I can tell you it is absolutely stupid and violent."

"So where do we start?"

"Where does anyone start?" asked Dante, running a hand through his hair, "We start with the bars."


	11. Ch 10 The Final Meeting of The Order

Deep within the halls of Castle Medea lay a chamber lined with pipes. Pipes, it so happened, were a recurring theme in the castle, implying the fortress to be one massive subterranean organ. The chamber lined with pipes held a number of thrones and mirrors as well. Each throne was built upon pipes, and the mirrors were framed with them. Upon these thrones were seated the members of the Order of the Mother.

Robed in green and hidden behind a wooden mask was Gaia, who began the meeting. "This is our final gathering," hummed a voice that sounded like a great wooden instrument, "The labors we have undertaken are at last to come to fruition."

Swathed in deep blue trimmed with white fur, the chilling voice of Shiva answered, "Spare us the theatrics, Gaia. The future is closed to us, whether this is our final meeting or not none can say."

"True," said Eva, her rainbow robe and feathered mask now facing the polar-bear fur of Shiva's mask, "None here is a time-thief, and yet . . . knowing the Iron King is come gives such a sense of finality. A child such as yourself could not be expected to feel the way adults do."

"Adult, are you now?" said Djinn from behind her skull-mask, raising an orange robed arm, "Careful now Eva, or you'll find yourself a hag."

"Providing all goes well, none of us shall ever need to fear such a prospect," said Tiamat, bowing her dragon skull. Her crimson robes shook slightly as she added, "So much potential there is."

"But can the Angel truly bring us immortality? Potions and Alchemy have oft been beyond his skill."

"Perhaps, Gaia," said Djinn, "But immortality is only a hope. Riches are a side-effect. Exaltation is the goal."

"More like dominion," said Shiva. "The Iron King will be unstoppable when the Angel is his."

"You are assuming," the Mother said, "that the Angel of Death bows to the Iron King. We were hired to do this. The Iron King provided us with SpelKryst to finance this project, and now we are nearing the end. We will give the Iron King his Angel, but it is up to the King to decide if he will be able to keep the bird once it is caged."

"Aren't we missing something here?" asked Eva, "Like, say, the Angel itself?"

"Ah, yes. That is certainly a problem. It is my understanding that both of the twins have fallen from the public eye recently."

"Both?" asked Shiva, "What happened to the girl?"

"No one knows. She made a much less noisy exit than her brother. Asked the Headmaster for time off from the school and poof! No more little Rosling."

"The girl matters not," said the Mother, "Only the boy. He is the Angel of Death, of this I am certain. Now, however, I would like to discuss something a little more immediate. Is there something you should be telling us, Shiva?"

"Yes, Mother," said Shiva, lowering her bear-head. "Virgil Cristo has turned against us. It would appear that he has . . . fooled us. Vergilius Frigita Cristo is an Auror, and has been for some time, now. There was never any record, however, so that he could keep an eye on us. He has also . . . vanished."

"Interesting," said Gaia, "Is it not, that three of these Cristos should just wander off when most we need them? There is a connection, here. What of Mercedes? Can we not take her and use her to lure out the others?"

"Unlikely," answered Tiamat. "We could capture Mercedes, yes, but the odds are higher that the Emerald Lady would send someone after us, and the noise that would make would alert the Iron King to our severe lack of Angel."

"Then I believe the matter is obvious enough, is it not?" said the Mother. "Shiva, Virgil was your responsibility. You were to keep him dumb and happy. You have failed me there. Whether your inability to keep him sated during the day or the night was what caused this failure I do not know, but you will be responsible for apprehending him. And," the Mother said, Mirror reflecting wood, "Gaia shall go with you. Yes, that seems most reasonable to me. The Iron King will not seek you, Gaia, or, should he do so, we shall simply remind him you are busy with the educational portions of the Castle. Which brings me to you, Eva. As useful as it is to be anyone you want, you cannot change the way others appear. Be that as it may, you will be called upon to distract the Iron King and his men, and Djinn, yes, Djinn you shall aid her. You are perhaps less physically interesting, but I rely upon your knack for distracting others. I am afraid your street minions shall be neglected, cloistered as we shall be. And Tiamat," The Mother paused a moment and considered the dragon-skulled agent. "Bring me the Angel of Death. Alive, please. There is a world full of Y chromosomes you may crush, so don't break the only one that matters?"

Tiamat bowed her head and said, "As The Mother demands, so shall it be done. The Angel of Death shall be yours."


	12. Ch 11 To Catch a Weevil

In a dingy little bar in Ireland a door had just been blown off the hinges. All eyes turned in astonishment to see a man holding what appeared to be a stick and a rather plain woman staring in amazement behind him. Several men reached for guns, all of which were sent flying toward the wild-eyed man with the stick. One by one the guns melted and fell to the floor. When all the men in the room had been disarmed, the madman stepped into the building.

"I'm looking for just one man," he said, his stick hanging at his side, "and one man only. Now, I'm trying to show the lady a good time, so if you would all comply, I won't have to scare her any more."

"Bloody Hell . . ." muttered the woman, still staring at the cooling pile of melted metal.

"I want the Weevil," said the man, looking long and hard at the gathered. "He might have some other name, but if he knows what's good for him, he'll own up now, before I have to fight Aurors to talk to him."

The men in the bar did not know what the hell an Auror was, but they DID know who the Weevil was. There was a momentary scuffle and then a scaly looking man in his late thirties or early fourties was thrust forward. The mad man looked down at Weevil and frowned.

"Forget to pay your tab again, Weevil? Borrow too much money and not pay it back?"

"Go to Hell, Magot," spat the Weevil.

"Ohhh," the Magot made a face at the Weevil. "Come now, that's a terrible way to say hello to an old friend."

"Friend!? Do you have any idea how many lives I've had to abandon because you keep tipping the Aurors off to my location!? I can't go _anywhere_ in the world without someone you hired knowing I'm there. You're worse than God, Magot, because at least He leaves me be!"

"That's all well and good, Weevil, but I'm pressed for time, so I'll make this quick."

"Excuse me-," interrupted the woman, "but what's with the gross bug names? Not the coolest wizard names if you ask me. Oughtn't you to have more fanciful names, like Gorgoroth and Gygax or something?"

"Weevil is only ever found where there is food to steal and praiseworthy things to defile," said the Magot.

"And the Magot can always be found nearest to death," answered the Weevil.

"Yes, well, that would be deep if it weren't so bloody cheesy."

"Oh," said the Magot, "I like you. You're going to do just well on this trip."

"Trip?" squealed Weevil, "what trip?" The Weevil got to his feet and stared wide-eyed.

"I'm looking for answers, Weevil. Specifically, ones related to a certain contract."

"Contract? What contract?"

"You know something then, Weevil?"

The Weevil began to rub himself erratically as he thought. "Yeah, I know something. I know you aren't going to find any good answers anywhere. Contract? Huh, what would I know about that."

The Magot drew his stick, but before he could strike the Weevil had produced a stick, and to the amazement of all, turned it into a knife. He plunged the knife into the Magot's shoulder, and was then shoved across the room in a blinding flash. When everyone could see again, they found that the Weevil now lay on the floor, his arms visibly broken, his knife-stick laying near his face, the Magot standing above him.

"You have ten seconds," said the Magot as the woman tried to pull him away, "to tell me everything you know, Weevil, before I pry your mind open and rip the answers from your skull."

"Bite me."

"Five seconds."

"Go to Hell."

"I will leave you on this floor so mentally abused your mind will be less useful than a vial of tapioca being employed in an attempt to stop a nuclear bomb."

"Fine!" Shouted the Weevil. "Fine! The contract is between my boss and a guy named the Iron King. I don't know much beyond that, just that the two of them went to some place in Wales called the Mortal Marshes a long time ago, and when they came back they had written some contract up."

"Mortal Marshes?"

"Yeah!"

"Good bye, Weevil."

"Good bye?" Said Weevil, suddenly on his feet, "Why yes, I suppose that is an appropriate term for this." Weevil's stick was again pointed at the Magot, and a blast of fire erupted from it. Magot side-stepped, but the wall could not. The side of the building gone, many of the men deemed this scene no longer worth watching and ran.

"I'm not sure whether I should be impressed or disappointed by this," said Magot, "I mean, who knew you could take out a whole wall? But I'm sad to see you're throwing away your life like this."

"Shut up and die!"

"Gladly," The Magot's stick twirled up in his hand and then his arm came down to rest again.

"What? Afraid, Magot? I knew you couldn't take a life."

"Boom," said the Magot. When he did, the Weevil's stick exploded, followed shortly there-after by the Weevil's hand, then his arm, then the whole room surrounding him. Shrapnel flew everywhere, eliciting a cry of terror from the plain woman. No nails nor boards pierced her, though, however, as the Magot had apparently shielded her from the blast.

On the ground lay the Weevil again, his entire arm, bone, flesh, blood and tissue was gone, spread around him like a violent flower bloom. His other arm gripped the empty socket, and the air was filled with his cries of pain. The Magot came and stood over him again.

"Didn't . . . kill . . . me . . ."

"No, Weevil, I didn't. And I'm not going to. I _did_ kill your arm, though. Dark Magic, that. You're not growing it back-,"

"He can grow back his arms?" asked the plain woman, who had worked up the will to look at the exploded arm.

"No, Healers can. But this is Dark Magic, which is snob-talk for playing for keeps. I want you alive, Weevil, and you only lost your arm because you didn't know when to walk away."

"K-kill . . . me . . . they . . . will . . ."

"Weevil, I've seen you derail trains because you thought it was funny. If someone hunts you down and kills you, it isn't my fault."

"What are we going to do with him?" asked the plain woman.

"Nothing," said the Magot, "We're leaving."

"What? We're leaving? But he could die!"

"Not likely. Chances are the authorities arrive in the next ten minutes."

"So we're off to Wales, then?"

"No, we're going to the hospital, first."

"What? Oh!"

"Yes, I'm not a big fan of having a hole in my stomach," said the Magot.

And off the two walked, into the night, leaving the barkeep with a pile of melted lead, an exploded arm, ruined bars, and a missing wall. He was on the verge of swearing when he spied a small bag by the door. Opening it he found a pile of gold.

"Damn Brits." He said as he closed the bag and started off for home.

Some moments later a group of men in dark cloaks appeared at the ruins of the bar, as if from thin air. They drew out small sticks and strode in time with one another to the bar. Inside they found destruction and the man with the exploded arm. The men looked at one another, each astonished by the level of damage that had been done here in a muggle bar. The clean up crews were going to have a hell of a time with this.

The tallest of the men looked down at the man with the exploded arm and said, "Hello, Weevil. I take it you had a run in with the Master of Shadows."

Weevil, somewhat aware of what was going on managed, "His name is Magot, Walker, and it always will be. He's one of The Mother's pestilence, whether he knows it or not."

"I have no time for the many names of Dante Magus, nor for the many faces of The Mother," answered Walker, turning to his men he added, "Take him. I'm going to Mungo's."


	13. Ch12 And Statius Makes Three

Chapter XI: And Statius Makes Three

Within several minutes of their encounter with the Weevil, Dante Magus and Beatrice Barnes were inside of Saint Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies. The pair walked as quickly as they could without appearing to be in a major hurry. Attracting attention at the moment was not on the to-do list.

"Try not to stare," Dante cautioned.

"I'm sorry," Beatrice said, "but that man's head is a giant turnip. I mean-,"

"He'll be fine. If anything, he's wasting gold marching out to Mungo's to get his head healed."

"Oh, so having turnips for heads is a fairly common thing among wizards?"

"No, not really. Well, I mean, it's more likely to have a radish than a turnip, but that's not the point, is it? His head's not an onion, it can't be that hard to cast a healing spell. The calculations can't be too hard."

"My God!" Beatrice intterupted, "Did you see that person? They looked like a werewolf!"

"Probably an attack victim having some kind of relapse."

"But they had a muzzle on him."

"Not surprised, he could go feral."

"But he's still human!"

"You will find, Beatrice, that what you call a human being and what wizard's call a human being are too very different things. You are walking in a society that, until relatively very recently, was obsessed with being pure-blooded wizards. That is they saw being a wizard as something different from not being one. To them you'd have hardly been human at all. Views toward Muggles have relaxed as of late, but it'll be years before people like werewolves can be accepted into society."

"That's horrible! Don't you people have rights? Have laws?"

"We've a Ministry, fat lot of good it does us. Wizards have rights. Everyone else? Not so much. These people would wipe your memory without your consent if they knew who you were."

"Why doesn't anyone stand up to them?"

"Oh, well, people do stand up to them, but it's hard to look like a hero when you're opposing people who helped defeat the single most powerful Dark Wizard in years."

"Dark Wizard. That's what you are, isn't it?"

Dante let out a pained laugh, coughing for a minute or two afterward. "You could say that," he said. "I like to think I'm simply studying to understand Magic as a whole, but I must admit the power is alluring, and," between further coughs, "the things you find yourself doing are haunting."

"So tell me again what separates you from the villains?"

"Simple, really: I don't _like_ using black magic. I mean, I like it in the same awkward sense that people like all sorts of more macabre things, but I don't enjoy actually turning peoples bones into adders. I know how, and I do it if I think I must, but it isn't like I'm not ashamed."

"So that's the wizarding dichotomy, then, huh? Plenty of wizards what never touch bad magic who are absolutely evil, and some wizards what play with black fire and are good people?"

"Oh, you are bright!" Dante exclaimed, openly pleased to see Beatrice had caught on. "We're a crazy bunch, aren't we?"

"Not any more bonkers than the rest of us," Beatrice answered, looking around at some of the other patients and their fantastic, if gruesome maladies. "What did you say this place was called?"

"Saint Mungo's."

"Mungo? I've never heard of him."

"No, I don't suppose you would have. The idea of a Wizard-Saint is pretty laughable in both of our cultures these days. Ironic, really, given how closely Arthur and Merlin worked."

"Oh, come off it," Beatrice said, "Arthur and Merlin are myths. Fairy tales, legends and that what not."

"Beatrice, darling, you are standing next to a wizard in a hospital for wizards who have contracted or been afflicted with magical maladies. Fantasy and Reality are a little closer together now, wouldn't you agree?"

"Good point, I guess. Here's a better question, though: How are you going to get treated for your wound if the Ministry's looking for us."

"Leave that," he said, "To me."

At this point the couple reached the check in desk, where an elderly lady, in fact a former hag, sat chewing her gum and shuffling files.

"Pardon me," Dante began, "We're here to see Healer Statius Jackson."

"Do you have an appointment?" asked the former hag.

"Not quite. But could you tell him Arthur Arden and family are here to see him?"

"One moment please," said the former hag. She scrawled a note on some paper and then rolled it up. She handed the paper to what had appeared to be a stuffed owl on her desk, who suddenly took it and flew off. "Please take a seat, the healer will be with you shortly."

"Have I mentioned the fact that this all defies logic?" asked Beatrice.

"Oh, I think you'll find logic's over-rated," Dante replied.

After what seemed like far too long, the Healer emerged from a hallway. Dressed in white robes fitting of his station, Healer Jackson was a tall blonde man with pale brown eyes, slender limbs, and a long, wispy beard. He peered over his spectacles at Dante and smiled broadly. Suddenly spying the wound in his side, Healer Jackson went pale, and said, "Arthur, my boy, you really must learn to watch where you bleed."

"A thousand, pardons, Healer. Just can't seem to keep the knives from out my ribs."

"Come along, then." Said the Healer.

Dante rose and followed the man, and Beatrice quickly followed suit. After all, who knew what kind of diseases she could catch here? Along the way she tried her best not to watch the people around her, to blend in, but she couldn't help but stare at some of the stranger injuries.

Once inside the Healer's office, Healer Jackson produced his wand and began flicking it at the door. The door locked, and several small puttering sounds seemed to imply a variety of other charms had been put in place. When he turned around, Healer Jackson looked rather annoyed.

"I take it you're on the run from the law again, Dante," he said, coming over to inspect his wound.

"That's a matter of opinion. I prefer to think the law is just obsessed with me."

"Right, because that makes sense." Healer Jackson began to point his wand at the other man's wounds, muttering as he did so. "Who's the girl? A Veela?"

"What? No, nothing magic."

"What do you mean, nothing magic?" asked the Healer as he reached for some potions in a cabinet.

"Exactly that," said Dante. "Don't touch that!" he called to Beatrice from across the room. "Might turn your arm into a flipper." Beatrice gave him a puzzled, and skeptical look, but nonetheless withdrew her hand.

"You mean to say she's a-?"

"Human being, just like you and me."

"No, no, _NO_. She's NOT like you or me, Dante. She's a muggle."

"So? What've you got against Muggles?"

"Dante, don't put it like that. She's a muggle. We're magi. This is a BIG law you've broken. They aren't supposed to know we exist. You're gonna have the entire MINISTRY after you."

"Not the first time, and I don't care. It isn't right, erasing memories because we can. And I don't want that to happen to her. Besides, they're after me anyway. Drew Walker-,"

"_Drew?_ Dante you're kidding me. You've got Walker after you? He's going to BE here any minute!"

"Then I hope you're ready to go."

"What, me?"

"Yes, YOU. I'm on to it, Statius. I'm going after The Mother, and I'm not stopping this time."

"You've been going after The Mother for years, it's why you quit being an Auror."

"Hated that job anyway, hunting artists down. Auror's aren't any better than the Wizard Hit Squad."

"You have a Hit Squad?" came Beatrice from across the room.

"See? See how barbaric we sound to them? _We're_ the savages, Stat, and I'm going to put an end to one of the most barbaric among us. Are you with me or not?"

"I-,"

Just then there came a rapping sound at the door. "Healer Jackson, open this door. This is the Auror's. We know that Edmond Cristo is in there with you."

Statius looked at Dante a moment, finished binding his wound shoved a potion into his hands and said, "Yeah, I'm in. Not like I had any aspirations in life anyway."

"That's the spirit!" Said Dante, swallowing the whole vial in one go. "Beatrice!" he called.

"You done yet?" she answered.

"Yeah, we're blowing this popsicle stand."

Beatrice grabbed hold of Dante's hand, and in the next moment, she, Statius and him were gone. A second later the door exploded and several Aurors walked in. The Magot had eluded them again.


End file.
